n she turned towards him, he
made a profound bow, as though he met her for the first time.

"Don't you remember me, Mr. Florio?" she asked, in an uncertain voice.

"Oh--indeed--perfectly," was the stammered reply.

He took her fingers with the most delicate respectfulness, again bowing
deeply; then drew back a little, his eyes travelling rapidly to the
faces of the others, as if seeking an explanation. Miss Bonnicastle
broke the silence, saying they must have some tea, and calling upon
Olga to help her in preparing it. For a minute or two the men were left
alone. Florio, approaching Piers on tiptoe, whispered anxiously:

"Miss Hannaford is in mourning?"

"Her mother is dead."

With a gesture of desolation, the Italian moved apart, and stood
staring absently at a picture on the wall. For the next quarter of an
hour, he took scarcely any part in the conversation; his utterances
were grave and subdued; repeatedly he glanced at Olga, and, if able to
do so unobserved, let his eyes rest upon her with agitated interest.
But for the hostess, there would have been no talk at all, and even she
fell far short of her wonted vivacity When things were at their most
depressing, someone knocked.

"Who's that, I wonder?" said Miss Bonnicastle. "All right!" she called
out. "Come along."

A head appeared; a long, pale, nervous countenance, with eyes that
blinked as if in too strong a light. Miss Bonnicastle started up,
clamouring an excited welcome. Olga flushed and smiled. It was Kite who
advanced into the room; on seeing Olga he stood still, became painfully
embarrassed, and could make no answer to the friendly greetings with
which Miss Bonnicastle received him. Forced into a chair at length, and
sitting sideways, with his long legs intertwisted, and his arms
fidgeting about, he made known that he had arrived only this morning
from Paris, and meant to stay in London for a month or two--perhaps
longer--it depended on circumstances. 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-boiler