The land through which these men were riding is the home of great distances--Russia.

They rode, moreover, as if they knew it--as if they had ridden for days and were aware of more days in front of them.
The companion of Karl Steinmetz looked like an Englishman.

He was young and fair and quiet.

He looked like a youthful athlete from Oxford or Cambridge--a simple-minded person who had jumped higher or run quicker than anybody else without conceit, taking himself, like St.Paul, as he found himself and giving the credit elsewhere.

And one finds that, after all, in this world of deceit, we are most of us that which we look like.
You, madam, look thirty-five to a day, although your figure is still youthful, your hair untouched by gray, your face unseamed by care.