Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. 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. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory.
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