Olga laughed.

“I am sorry to say that I have not grown rich.”

He bent his gaze upon her, and it glowed with tender amorousness.

“You remind me—­I have something to tell you.  In Italy, not everybody is quite poor.  For example, my grandfather, at Bologna.  I have made a visit to my grandfather.  He likes me; he admires me because I have intelligence.  He will not live very long, that poor grandfather.”

Olga glanced at him, and met the queer calculating melancholy of his fine eyes.

“Miss Hannaford, if some day I am rich, I shall of course live in England.  In what other country can one live?  I shall have a house in the West End; I shall have a carriage; I shall nationalise—­you say naturalise?—­myself, and be an Englishman, not a beggarly Italian.  And that will not be long.  The poor old grandfather is weak, weak; he decays, he loses his mind; but he has made his testament, oh yes!”

The girl’s look wandered about the grassy space, she was uneasy.

“Shall we turn and walk back, Mr. Florio?”

“If you wish, but slowly, slowly.  I am so happy to have met you.  Your company is a delight to me, Miss Hannaford.  Can we not meet more often?”

“I am always glad to see you,” she answered nervously.

“Good!—­A thought occurs to me.”  He pointed to the iron fence they were approaching.  “Is not that a waste?  Why does not the public authority—­what do you call it?—­make money of these railings?  Imagine!  One attaches advertisements to the rail, metal plates, of course artistically designed, not to spoil the Park.  They might swing in the wind as it blows, and perhaps little bells might ring, to attract attention.  A good idea, is it not?”

“A splendid idea,” Olga answered, with a laugh.

“Ah!  England is a great country!  But, Miss Hannaford, there is one thing in which the Italian is not inferior to the Englishman.  May I say what that is?”

“There are many things, I am sure——­”

“But there is one thing—­that is Love!”

Olga walked on, head bent, and Florio enveloped her in his gaze.

“To-day I say no more, Miss Hannaford.  I had something to tell you, and I have told it.  When I have something more to tell we shall meet —­oh, I am sure we shall meet.”

“You are staying in England for some time?” said Olga, as if in ordinary conversation.

“For a little time; I come, I go.  I have, you know, my affairs, my business.  How is your friend, the admirable artist, the charming Miss Bonnicastle?”

“Oh, very well, always well.”

“Yes, the English ladies they have wonderful health—­I admire them; but there is one I admire most of all.”

A few remarks more, of like tenor, and they drew near again to the Marble Arch.  With bows and compliments and significant looks, Mr. Florio walked briskly away in search of an omnibus.

Olga, her eyes cast down as she turned homeward, was not aware that someone who had held her in sight for a long time grew gradually near, until he stepped to her side.  It was Mr. Kite.  He looked at her with a melancholy smile on his long, lank face, and, when at length the girl saw him, took off his shabby hat respectfully.  Olga nodded and walked on without speaking.  Kite accompanying her.