"With his bad Russian and his English prejudices.

Of course he'll be lonely and then he'll be in every one's way." I could remember, readily enough, some of the loneliness of those first months of my own, when both war and the Russians had differed so from my expectations.

This fellow looked just the figure for high romantic pictures.

He had, doubtless, seen Russia in the colours of the pleasant superficial books of travel that have of late, in England, been so popular, books that see in the Russian a blessed sort of Idiot unable to read or write but vitally conscious of God, and in Russia a land of snow, ikons, mushrooms and pilgrims.

Yes, he would be disappointed, unhappy, and tiresome.