CHAPTER XVII

Olga was the first to break silence.

“You ought to take your boots to be mended,” she said gently.  “If it rains, you’ll get wet feet, and you know what that means.”

“You’re very kind to think of it; I will.”

“You can pay for them, I hope?”

“Pay?  Oh, yes, yes! a trifle such as that—­Have you had a long walk?”

“I met a friend.  I may as well tell you; it was the Italian, Mr. Florio.”

“I saw you together,” said Kite absently, but not resentfully.  “I half thought of coming up to be introduced to him.  But I’m rather shabby, I feared you mightn’t like it.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered a bit, so far as I’m concerned,” replied Olga good-naturedly.  “But he isn’t the kind of man you’d care for.  If he had been, I should have got you to meet him before now.”

“You like him?”

“Yes, I rather like him.  But it’s nothing more than that; don’t imagine it.  Oh, I had a call from my cousin Irene this morning.  We don’t quite get on together; she’s getting very worldly.  Her idea is that one ought to marry cold-bloodedly, just for social advantage, and that kind of thing.  No doubt she’s going to do it, and then we shall never see each other again, never!—­She tells me that Piers Otway is coming to England again.”

“Oh, now I should like to know him, I really should!” exclaimed Kite, with a mild vivacity.

“So you shall, if he stays in London.  Perhaps you would suit each other.”

“I’m sure, because you like him so much.”

“Do I?” asked Olga doubtfully.  “Yes, perhaps so.  If he hasn’t changed for the worse.  But it’ll be rather irritating if he talks about nothing but Irene still.  Oh, that’s impossible!  Five years; yes, that’s impossible.”

“One should think the better of him, in a way,” ventured Kite.

“Oh, in a way.  But when a thing of that sort is hopeless.  I’m afraid Irene looks down upon him, just because—­you know.  But he’s better than most of the men she’ll meet in her drawing-rooms, that’s Certain.  Shall I ask him to come to my place?”

“Do.  And I hope he’ll stay in England, and that you’ll see a good deal of him.”

“Pray, why?”

“Because that’s the right kind of acquaintance for you, he’ll do you good.”

Olga laughed a little, and said, with compassionate kindness: 

“You are queer!”

“I meant nothing unpleasant, Olga,” was the apologetic rejoinder.

“Of course you didn’t.  Have you had dinner yet?”

“Dinner?  Oh yes—­of course, long ago!”

“I know what that means.”

“’Sh!  ’Sh!  May I came home and talk a little?”