At the sound of his voice, Olga paused, smiling,
and gave him her hand with friendliness. He was an Italian, his name
Florio; they had met several times at a house which she visited with
Miss Bonnicastle. Mr. Florio had a noticeable visage, very dark of
tone, eyes which at one time seemed to glow with noble emotion, and
at another betrayed excessive shrewdness; heavy eyebrows and long
black lashes; a nose of classical Perfection; large mouth with thick
and very red lips. He was dressed in approved English fashion, as a
man of leisure, wore a massive watchguard across his buff summer
waistcoat, and carried a silver-headed cane.
"You are taking a little walk," he said, with a very slight foreign
accent. "If you will let me walk with you a little way I shall be
honoured. The Park? A delightful day for the Park! Let us walk over
the grass, as we may do in this free country. I have something to
tell you, Miss Hannaiord."
"That's nice of you, Mr. Florio. So few people tell one anything one
doesn't know; but yours is sure to be real news."
"It is--I assure you it is. But, first of all, I was thinking on
the 'bus--I often ride on the 'bus, it gives one ideas--I was
thinking what a pity they do not use the back of the 'bus driver to
display advertisements. It is a loss of space. Those men are so
beautifully broad, and one looks at their backs, and there is
nothing, nothing to see but an ugly coat.
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