"So you shall, if he stays in London. Perhaps you would suit each
other."
"I'm sure, because you like him so much."
"Do I?" asked Olga doubtfully. "Yes, perhaps so. If he hasn't
changed for the worse. But it'll be rather irritating if he talks
about nothing but Irene still. Oh, that's impossible! Five years;
yes, that's impossible."
"One should think the better of him, in a way," ventured Kite.
"Oh, in a way. But when a thing of that sort is hopeless. I'm afraid
Irene looks down upon him, just because--you know. But he's better
than most of the men she'll meet in her drawing-rooms, that's
Certain. Shall I ask him to come to my place?"
"Do. And I hope he'll stay in England, and that you'll see a good
deal of him."
"Pray, why?"
"Because that's the right kind of acquaintance for you, he'll do you
good."
Olga laughed a little, and said, with compassionate kindness:
"You _are_ queer!"
"I meant nothing unpleasant, Olga," was the apologetic rejoinder.
"Of course you didn't. Have you had dinner yet?"
"Dinner? Oh yes--of course, long ago!"
"I know what that means."
"'Sh! 'Sh! May I came home and talk a little?"
Dinner, it might be feared, was no immutable feature of Mr. Kite's
day. He had a starved aspect; his long limbs were appallingly
meagre; as he strode along, his clothing, thin and disreputable,
flapped about him. But his countenance showed nothing whatever of
sourness, or of grim endurance.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217