The evidence in support of their faith was slight enough; a few
sketches, a hint in crayon, or a wash in water-colour, were all he
had to show; but Kite belonged to that strange order of men who,
seemingly without effort or advantage of any kind, awaken the
interest and gain the confidence of certain women. Even Mrs.
Hannaford, though a mother's reasons set her against him, had felt
this seductive quality in Olga's lover, and liked though she could
not approve of him. Powers of fascination in a man very often go
together with lax principle, if not with active rascality; Kite was
an instance to the contrary. He had a quixotic sensitiveness, a
morbid instinct of honour. If it is true that virile force,
preferably with a touch of the brutal, has a high place in the
natural woman's heart, none the less does an ideal of male purity,
of the masculine subdued to gentle virtues, make strong appeal to
the imagination in her sex. To the everyday man, Kite seemed a mere
pale grotesque, a creature of flabby foolishness. But Olga Hannaford
was not the only girl who had dreamed of devoting her life to him.
If she could believe his assurance (and she all but did believe it),
for her alone had he felt anything worthy to be called love, to her
alone had he spoken words of tenderness. The high-tide of her
passion had long since ebbed; yet she knew that Kite still had power
over her, power irresistible, if he chose to exercise it, and the
strange fact that he would not, that, still loving her, he did not
seem to be jealous for her love in return, often moved her to
bitterness.
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