l see a good deal
of him."

"Pray, why?"

"Because that's the right kind of acquaintance for you, he'll do you
good."

Olga laughed a little, and said, with compassionate kindness:

"You _are_ queer!"

"I meant nothing unpleasant, Olga," was the apologetic rejoinder.

"Of course you didn't. Have you had dinner yet?"

"Dinner? Oh yes--of course, long ago!"

"I know what that means."

"'Sh! 'Sh! May I come home and talk a little?"

Dinner, it might be feared, was no immutable feature of Mr. Kite's day.
He had a starved aspect; his long limbs were appallingly meagre; as he
strode along, his clothing, thin and disreputable, flapped about him.
But his countenance showed nothing whatever of sourness, or of grim
endurance. Nor did he appear to be in a feeble state of health; for all
his emaciation, his step was firm and he held himself tolerably
upright. One thing was obvious, that at Olga's side he forgot his ills.
Each time he glanced at her, a strange beautiful smile passed like a
light over his hard features, a smile of infinite melancholy, yet of
infinite tenderness. The voice in which he addressed her was invariably
softened to express something more than homage.

They had the habit of walking side by side, and could keep silence
without any feeling of restraint. Kite now and then uttered some word
or ejaculation, to which Olga paid no heed; it was only his way, the
trick of a man who lived much alone, and who conversed with visions.

On ascending to the room in Great Portland Street, they found Miss
Bonnicastle hard at work on a design of considerable size, which hung
against the wall. This young lady, for all her sportiveness, was never
tempted to jest at the expense of Mr. Kite; removing a charcoal holder
from her mouth, she nodded pleasantly, and stood aside to allow the
melancholy man a view of her work.

"Astonishing vigour!" said Kite, in his soft, sincere voice. "How I
envy you!"

Miss Bonnicastle laughed with self-deprecation. She, no less than Olga
Hannaford, credited Kite with wonderful artistic powers; in their view,
only his constitutional defect of energy, his incorrigible dreaminess,
stood between him and great achievement. The evidence in support of
their faith was slight enough; a few sketches, a hint in crayon, or a
wash in water-colour, were all he had to show; but Kite belonged to
that strange order of men who, seemingly without effort or advantage of
any kind, awaken the interest a