She knew his story.  He was the natural son of a spendthrift aristocrat, who, after educating him decently had died and left a will which seemed to assure Kite a substantial independence.  Unfortunately, the will dealt, for the most part, with property no longer in existence.  Kite’s income was to be paid by one of the deceased’s relatives, who, instead of benefiting largely, found that he came in for a mere pittance; and the proportion of that pittance due to the illegitimate son was exactly forty-five pounds, four shillings, and fourpence per annum.  It was paid; it kept Kite alive; also, no doubt, it kept him from doing what he might have done, in art or anything else.  On quarterly pay-day the dreamer always spent two or three pounds on gifts to those of his friends who were least able to make practical return.  To Olga, of course, he had offered lordly presents, until the day when she firmly refused to take anything more from him.  When his purse was empty he earned something by journeyman work in the studio of a portrait painter, a keen man of business, who gave shillings to this assistant instead of the sovereigns that another would have asked for the same labour.

As usual when he came here, Kite settled himself in a chair, stretched out his legs, let his arms depend, and so watched the two girls at work.  There was not much conversation; Kite never began it.  Miss Bonnicastle hummed, or whistled, or sang, generally the refrains of the music-hall; if work gave her trouble she swore vigorously—­in German, a language with which she was well acquainted and at the sound of her maledictions, though he did not understand them, Kite always threw his head back with a silent laugh.  Olga naturally had most of his attention; he often fixed his eyes upon her for five minutes at a time, and Olga, being used to this, was not at all disturbed by it.

When five o’clock came, Miss Bonnicastle flung up her arms and yawned.

“Let’s have some blooming tea!” she exclaimed.  “All right, I’ll get it.  I’ve just about ten times the muscle and go of you two put together; it’s only right I should do the slavey.”

Kite rose, and reached his hat.  Whereupon, with soft pressure of her not very delicate hands, Miss Bonnicastle forced him back into his chair.

“Sit still.  Do as I tell you.  What’s the good of you if you can’t help us to drink tea?”

And Kite yielded, as always, wishing he could sit there for ever.

Three weeks later, on an afternoon of rain, the trio were again together in the same way.  Someone knocked, and a charwoman at work on the premises handed in a letter for Miss Hannaford.

“I know who this is from,” said Olga, looking up at Kite.

“And I can guess,” he returned, leaning forward with a look of interest.

She read the note—­only a few lines, and handed it to her friend, remarking: 

“He’d better come to-morrow.”