"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 come home and talk a little?"
Dinner, it might be feared, was no immutable feature of Mr. Kite's day. He had a starved aspect; his long limbs were appallingly meagre; as he strode along, his clothing, thin and disreputable, flapped about him. But his countenance showed nothing whatever of sourness, or of grim endurance. Nor did he appear to be in a feeble state of health; for all his emaciation, his step was firm and he held himself tolerably upright. One thing was obvious, that at Olga's side he forgot his ills. Each time he glanced at her, a strange beautiful smile passed like a light over his hard features, a smile of infinite melancholy, yet of infinite tenderness. The voice in which he addressed her was invariably softened to express something more than homage.
They had the habit of walking side by side, and could keep silence without any feeling of restraint. Kite now and then uttered some word or ejaculation, to which Olga paid no heed; it was only his way, the trick of a man who lived much alone, and who conversed with visions.