She knew his story. He was the natural son of a spendthrift
aristocrat, who, after educating him decently had died and left a
will which seemed to assure Kite a substantial independence.
Unfortunately, the will dealt, for the most part, with property no
longer in existence. Kite's income was to be paid by one of the
deceased's relatives, who, instead of benefiting largely, found that
he came in for a mere pittance; and the proportion of that pittance
due to the illegitimate son was exactly forty-five pounds, four
shillings, and fourpence per annum. It was paid; it kept Kite alive;
also, no doubt, it kept him from doing what he might have done, in
art or anything else. On quarterly pay-day the dreamer always spent
two or three pounds on gifts to those of his friends who were least
able to make practical return. To Olga, of course, he had offered
lordly presents, until the day when she firmly refused to take
anything more from him. When his purse was empty he earned something
by journeyman work in the studio of a portrait painter, a keen man
of business, who gave shillings to this assistant instead of the
sovereigns that another would have asked for the same labour.
As usual when he came here, Kite settled himself in a chair,
stretched out his legs, let his arms depend, and so watched the two
girls at work. There was not much conversation; Kite never began it.
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