“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 plainly?”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his features distorted, rather than graced, by a smile.

The girl approached him, arms akimbo, but, by virtue of a frank look, suggesting more than usual of womanhood.

“You’ve got to be either one thing or the other.  She doesn’t care that”—­a snap of the fingers—­“for this man Otway, and she knows he doesn’t care for her.  But she’s playing him against you, and you must expect more of it.  You ought to make up your mind.  It isn’t fair to her.”

“Thank you,” murmured Kite, reddening a little.  “It’s kind of you.”

“Well, I hope it is.  But she’d be furious if she guessed I’d said such a thing.  I only do it because it’s for her good as much as yours.  Things oughtn’t to drag on, you know; it isn’t fair to a girl like that.”

Kite thrust his hands into his pockets, and drew himself up to a full five feet eleven.

“I’ll go away,” he said.  “I’ll go and live in Paris for a bit.”

“That’s for you to decide.  Of course if you feel like that—­it’s none of my business, I don’t pretend to understand you; I’m not quite sure I understand her.  You’re a queer couple.  All I know is, it’s gone on long enough, and it isn’t fair to a girl like Olga.  She isn’t the sort that can doze through a comfortable engagement of ten or twelve years, and surely you know that.”

“I’ll go away,” said Kite again, nodding resolutely.

He turned again to the poster, and Miss Bonnicastle resumed her work.  Thus Olga found them when she came back.

“I’ve asked him to come at three,” she said.  “You’ll be out then, Bonnie.  When you come in we’ll put the kettle on, and all have tea.”  She chanted it, to the old nursery tune.  “Of course you’ll come as well”—­she addressed Kite—­“say about four.  It’ll be jolly!”