His health seemed improved, but he talked in the old
way, vaguely, languidly. Yes, he had had a little success; but it
amounted to nothing; his work--rubbish! rubbish! Thereupon the
cafe sketches in the illustrated papers were shown to Florio, who
poured forth exuberant praise. A twinkle of pleasure came into the
artist's eyes.
"But the other things we heard about?" said Miss Bonnicastle. "The
what-d'ye-call 'ems, the figures----"
Kite shrugged his shoulders, and looked uneasy.
"Oh, pot-boilers! Poor stuff. Happened to catch people's eyes. Who
told you about them?"
"Some man--I forget. And what are you doing now?"
"Oh, nothing. A little black-and-white for that thing," he pointed
contemptuously to the paper. "Keeps me from idleness."
"Where are you going to live?"
"I don't know. I shall find a garret somewhere. Do you know of one
about here?"
Olga's eyes chanced to meet a glance from Otway. She moved,
hesitated, and rose from her chair. Kite and the Italian gazed at
her, then cast a look at each other, then both looked at Otway, who
had at once risen.
"Do you walk home?" said Piers, stepping towards her.
"I'd better have a cab."
It was said in a quietly decisive tone, and Piers made no reply.
Both took leave with few words. Olga descended the stairs rapidly,
and, without attention to her companion, turned at a hurried pace
down the dark street.
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