Miss Bonnicastle hummed, or whistled, or sang, generally the
refrains of the music-hall; if work gave her trouble she swore
vigorously--in German, a language with which she was well
acquainted and at the sound of her maledictions, though he did not
understand them, Kite always threw his head back with a silent
laugh. Olga naturally had most of his attention; he often fixed his
eyes upon her for five minutes at a time, and Olga, being used to
this, was not at all disturbed by it.
When five o'clock came, Miss Bonnicastle flung up her arms and
yawned.
"Let's have some blooming tea!" she exclaimed. "All right, I'll get
it. I've just about ten times the muscle and go of you two put
together; it's only right I should do the slavey."
Kite rose, and reached his hat. Whereupon, with soft pressure of her
not very delicate hands, Miss Bonnicastle forced him back into his
chair.
"Sit still. Do as I tell you. What's the good of you if you can't
help us to drink tea?"
And Kite yielded, as always, wishing he could sit there for ever.
Three weeks later, on an afternoon of rain, the trio were again
together in the same way. Someone knocked, and a charwoman at work
on the premises handed in a letter for Miss Hannaford.
"I know who this is from," said Olga, looking up at Kite.
"And I can guess," he returned, leaning forward with a look of
interest.
She read the note--only a few lines, and handed it to her friend,
remarking:
"He'd better come to-morrow.
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