Miss
Bonnicastle broke the silence, saying they must have some tea, and
calling upon Olga to help her in preparing it. For a minute or two
the men were left alone. Florio, approaching Piers on tiptoe,
whispered anxiously:
"Miss Hannaford is in mourning?"
"Her mother is dead."
With a gesture of desolation, the Italian moved apart, and stood
staring absently at a picture on the wall. For the next quarter of
an hour, he took scarcely any part in the conversation; his
utterances were grave and subdued; repeatedly he glanced at Olga,
and, if able to do so unobserved, let his eyes rest upon her with
agitated interest. But for the hostess, there would have been no
talk at all, and even she fell far short of her wonted vivacity When
things were at their most depressing, someone knocked.
"Who's that, I wonder?" said Miss Bonnicastle. "All right!" she
called out. "Come along."
A head appeared; a long, pale, nervous countenance, with eyes that
blinked as if in too strong a light. Miss Bonnicastle started up,
clamouring an excited welcome. Olga flushed and smiled. It was Kite
who advanced into the room; on seeing Olga he stood still, became
painfully embarrassed, and could make no answer to the friendly
greetings with which Miss Bonnicastle received him. Forced into a
chair at length, and sitting sideways, with his long legs
intertwisted, and his arms fidgeting about, he made known that he
had arrived only this morning from Paris, and meant to stay in
London for a month or two--perhaps longer--it depended on
circumstances.
Pages:
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395