But John Trenchard, of whose life and death I have tried elsewhere to say something, was young Bohun’s opposite, and I do not think that the strange unexpectedness of Russia can he exemplified more strongly than by the similarity of appeal that she could make to two so various characters.  John was shy, self-doubting, humble, brave, and a gentleman,—­Bohun was brave and a gentleman, but the rest had yet to be added to him.  How he would have patronised Trenchard if he had known him!  And yet at heart they were not perhaps so dissimilar.  At the end of my story it will be apparent, I think, that they were not.

That journey from Newcastle to Bergen, from Bergen to Torneo, from Torneo to Petrograd is a tiresome business.  There is much waiting at Custom-houses, disarrangement of trains and horses and meals, long wearisome hours of stuffy carriages and grimy window-panes.  Bohun I suspect suffered, too, from that sudden sharp precipitance into a world that knew not Discipline and recked nothing of the Granta.  Obviously none of the passengers on the boat from Newcastle had ever heard of Discipline.  They clutched in their hands the works of Mr. Oppenheim, Mr. Compton Mackenzie, and Mr. O’Henry and looked at Bohun, I imagine, with indifferent superiority.  He had been told at the Foreign Office that his especial travelling companion was to be Jerry Lawrence.  If he had hoped for anything from this direction one glance at Jerry’s brick-red face and stalwart figure must have undeceived him.  Jerry, although he was now thirty-two years of age, looked still very much the undergraduate.  My slight acquaintance with him had been in those earlier Cambridge days, through a queer mutual friend, Dune, who at that time seemed to promise so magnificently, who afterwards disappeared so mysteriously.  You would never have supposed that Lawrence, Captain of the University Rugger during his last two years, Captain of the English team through all the Internationals of the season 1913-14, could have had anything in common, except football, with Dune, artist and poet if ever there was one.  But on the few occasions when I saw them together it struck me that football was the very least part of their common ground.  And that was the first occasion on which I suspected that Jerry Lawrence was not quite what he seemed....

I can imagine Lawrence standing straddleways on the deck of the Jupiter, his short thick legs wide apart, his broad back indifferent to everything and everybody, his rather plump, ugly, good-natured face staring out to sea as though he saw nothing at all.  He always gave the impression of being half asleep, he had a way of suddenly lurching on his legs as though in another moment his desire for slumber would be too strong for him, and would send him crashing to the ground.  He would be smoking an ancient briar, and his thick red hands would be clasped behind his back....

No encouraging figure for Bohun’s aestheticism.