much.

This look was specially noticeable this morning as he stood before the
iron railings. The things he was thinking of were of a kind likely to
bring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression.

He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and their
old soldier servant, Lazarus, had made during the last few days--the
journey from Russia. Cramped in a close third-class railway carriage,
they had dashed across the Continent as if something important or
terrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in London as
if they were going to live forever at No. 7 Philibert Place. He knew,
however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probable
that, in the middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken him
from his sleep and say, "Get up--dress yourself quickly. We must go at
once." A few days later, he might be in St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna,
or Budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby and
comfortless as No. 7 Philibert Place.

He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it and watched the
busses. His strange life and his close association with his father had
made him much older than his years, but he was only a boy, after all,
and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and set
him to deep wondering.

In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whose
life was in the least like his own. Other boys had homes in which they
spent year after year; they went to school regularly, and played with
other boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, and
the journeys they made. When he remained in a place long enough to make