nd gain the confidence of certain women.
Even Mrs. Hannaford, though a mother's reasons set her against him, had
felt this seductive quality in Olga's lover, and liked though she could
not approve of him. Powers of fascination in a man very often go
together with lax principle, if not with active rascality; Kite was an
instance to the contrary. He had a quixotic sensitiveness, a morbid
instinct of honour. If it is true that virile force, preferably with a
touch of the brutal, has a high place in the natural woman's heart,
none the less does an ideal of male purity, of the masculine subdued to
gentle virtues, make strong appeal to the imagination in her sex. To
the everyday man, Kite seemed a mere pale grotesque, a creature of
flabby foolishness. But Olga Hannaford was not the only girl who had
dreamed of devoting her life to him. If she could believe his assurance
(and she all but did believe it), for her alone had he felt anything
worthy to be called love, to her alone had he spoken words of
tenderness. The high-tide of her passion had long since ebbed; yet she
knew that Kite still had power over her, power irresistible, if he
chose to exercise it, and the strange fact that he would not, that,
still loving her, he did not seem to be jealous for her love in return,
often moved her to bitterness.

She knew his story. He was the natural son of a spendthrift aristocrat,
who, after educating him decently had died and left a will which seemed
to assure Kite a substantial independence. Unfortunately, the will
dealt, for the most part, with property no longer in existence. Kite's
income was to be paid by one of the deceased's relatives, who, instead
of benefiting largely, found that he came in for a mere pittance; and
the proportion of that pittance due to the illegitimate son was exactly
forty-five pounds, four shillings, and fourpence per annum. It was
paid; it kept Kite alive; also, no doubt, it kept him from doing what
he might have done, in art or anything else. On quarterly pay-day the
dreamer always spent two or three pounds on gifts to those of his
friends who were least able to make practical return. To Olga, of
course, he had offered lordly presents, until the day when she firmly
refused to take anything more from him. When his purse was empty he
earned something by journeyman work in the studio of a portrait
painter, a keen man of business, who gave shillings to this assistant
instead of the sovereigns that another