They amused themselves over it for a moment.
"He used to be a journalist," said Olga. "Does he seem to be doing
well?"
"Couldn't say. A great talker, and a furious Jingo."
"Jingo?"
"This woman is to sing a song of his composition, all about the
Empire. Not the hall; the British. Glorifies the Flag, that blessed
rag--a rhyme I suggested to him, and asked him to pay me for. It's
a taking tune, and we shall have it everywhere, no doubt. He sang a
verse--I wish you could have heard him. A queer fish!"
Olga walked about, seeming to inspect the pictures, but in reality
much occupied with her thoughts.
"Well," she said presently, "I only looked in, dear, to say
how-do-you-do."
Miss Bonnicastle was drawing; she turned, as if to shake hands, but
looked her friend in the face with a peculiar expression, far more
earnest than was commonly seen in her.
"You called on Kite yesterday morning."
Olga, with slight confusion, admitted that she had been to see the
artist. For some weeks Kite had suffered from an ailment which
confined him to the house; he could not walk, and indeed could do
nothing but lie and read, or talk of what he would do, when he
recovered his health. Cheap claret having lost its inspiring force,
the poor fellow had turned to more potent beverages, and would ere
now have sunk into inscrutable deeps but for Miss Bonnicastle, who
interested herself in his welfare.
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