“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-boilers!  Poor stuff.  Happened to catch people’s eyes.  Who told you about them?”

“Some man—­I forget.  And what are you doing now?”

“Oh, nothing.  A little black-and-white for that thing,” he pointed contemptuously to the paper.  “Keeps me from idleness.”

“Where are you going to live?”

“I don’t know.  I shall find a garret somewhere.  Do you know of one about here?”

Olga’s eyes chanced to meet a glance from Otway.  She moved, hesitated, and rose from her chair.  Kite and the Italian gazed at her, then cast a look at each other, then both looked at Otway, who had at once risen.

“Do you walk home?” said Piers, stepping towards her.

“I’d better have a cab.”

It was said in a quietly decisive tone, and Piers made no reply.  Both took leave with few words.  Olga descended the stairs rapidly, and, without attention to her companion, turned at a hurried pace down the dark street.  They had walked nearly a hundred yards when she turned her head and spoke.

“Can’t you suggest some way for me to earn my living?  I mean it.  I must find something.”