She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. He looked at her with a certain curiosity. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. “The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. “Do tell me all about it. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. Of you—an angel with one wing. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie.
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