"
"Who's that?" asked Miss Bonnicastle.
"Piers Otway."
The poster artist glanced from one face to the other, with a smile.
There had been much talk lately of Otway, who was about to begin
business in London; his partner, Andre Moncharmont, remaining at
Odessa. Olga had heard from her mother that Piers wished to see her,
and had allowed Mrs. Hannaford to give him her address; he now wrote
asking if he might call.
"I'll go and send him a wire," she said. "There isn't time to write.
To-morrow's Sunday."
When Olga had run out, Kite, as if examining a poster on the wall,
turned his back to Miss Bonnicastle. She, after a glance or two in
his direction, addressed him by name, and the man looked round.
"You don't mind if I speak plainly?"
"Of course I don't," he replied, his features distorted, rather than
graced, by a smile.
The girl approached him, arms akimbo, but, by virtue of a frank
look, suggesting more than usual of womanhood.
"You've got to be either one thing or the other. She doesn't care
_that_"--a snap of the fingers--"for this man Otway, and she
knows he doesn't care for her. But she's playing him against you,
and you must expect more of it. You ought to make up your mind. It
isn't fair to her."
"Thank you," murmured Kite, reddening a little. "It's kind of you."
"Well, I hope it is. But she'd be furious if she guessed I'd said
such a thing.
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