morally convinced of their truth, and consequently more than half an
Anarchist. The bold thought and lofty ideal which made of each man a law
unto himself, answerable for his own actions only to his own conscience,
acting righteously towards others as the result of his feeling of
solidarity and not because of any external compulsion, captivated my mind.

The Anarchists who frequented Nekrovitch's house were men of bold and
original thought, the intellectual part of the movement, and I was never
tired of listening to their arguments. Meantime the more I saw of the
Social Democrats the less I felt satisfied with them. A wider experience
would have told me that all political parties, irrespective of opinion,
are subject to much the same criticism, and that Socialist ideas are no
protection against human weaknesses; but extreme youth is not compromising
where its ideals are concerned, and I expected and insisted on a certain
approach to perfection in my heroes. True, Nekrovitch made me hesitate
some time before taking the final step. His attitude in such discussions
was one of sound common sense, and he never ceased reminding his Anarchist
friends, though all in vain, that we must live in our own times, and that
it is no use trying to forestall human evolution by some thousand years.

At home I had become more and more my own mistress. I was now full
eighteen years of age, and had always been accustomed to think and act for
myself. Caroline, with whom I was on most affectionate terms, despite our
frequent differences on politics, had accepted an engagement as _prima
donna_ with a travelling opera company which was to visit the United
States and the principal cities of South America; her engagement was to
last two years, and she had left just three weeks before the opening of my
first chapter.

Raymond slept at home, but as the date of his final examination drew near