would have asked for the same
labour.

As usual when he came here, Kite settled himself in a chair, stretched
out his legs, let his arms depend, and so watched the two girls at
work. There was not much conversation; Kite never began it. Miss
Bonnicastle hummed, or whistled, or sang, generally the refrains of the
music-hall; if work gave her trouble she swore vigorously--in German, a
language with which she was well acquainted and at the sound of her
maledictions, though he did not understand them, Kite always threw his
head back with a silent laugh. Olga naturally had most of his
attention; he often fixed his eyes upon her for five minutes at a time,
and Olga, being used to this, was not at all disturbed by it.

When five o'clock came, Miss Bonnicastle flung up her arms and yawned.

"Let's have some blooming tea!" she exclaimed. "All right, I'll get it.
I've just about ten times the muscle and go of you two put together;
it's only right I should do the slavey."

Kite rose, and reached his hat. Whereupon, with soft pressure of her
not very delicate hands, Miss Bonnicastle forced him back into his
chair.

"Sit still. Do as I tell you. What's the good of you if you can't help
us to drink tea?"

And Kite yielded, as always, wishing he could sit there for ever.

Three weeks later, on an afternoon of rain, the trio were again
together in the same way. Someone knocked, and a charwoman at work on
the premises handed in a letter for Miss Hannaford.

"I know who this is from," said Olga, looking up at Kite.

"And I can guess," he returned, leaning forward with a look of interest.

She read the note--only a few lines, and handed it to her friend,
remarking:

"He'd better come to-morrow."

"Who's that?" asked Miss Bonnicastle.

"Piers Otway."

The poster artist glanced from one face to the other, with a smile.
There had been much talk lately of Otway, who was about to begin
business in London; his partner, Andre Moncharmont, remaining at
Odessa. Olga had heard from her mother that Piers wished to see her,
and had allowed Mrs. Hannaford to give him her address; he now wrote
asking if he might call.

"I'll go and send him a wire," she said. "There isn't time to write.
To-morrow's Sunday."

When Olga had run out, Kite, as if examining a poster on the wall,
turned his back to Miss Bonnicastle. She, after a glance or two in his
direction, addressed him by name, and the man looked round.

"You don't mind if I speak