Mrs. Wyndwood hesitated, as if about to introduce the two men, but the leonine Dolkovitch swept her off, and she had only time to leave a bewitching smile behind her.
“Won’t you go and see the child, Mr. Strang?” Olive asked.
He hesitated in his turn. But she would come back if he waited.
“I would rather stay with you if I may,” he replied, gallantly.
Olive looked sideways along the lounge.
“There is room,” she reported.
“Thank you.” He seated himself at her side, and stolidly regarded the crowd and the opposite pictures.
Olive fanned herself silently at great length. The painter, stealing a sudden glance at her, found her observing the human spectacle with an air of infinite sadness.
“Do you like dogs?” she asked, unexpectedly.
“Yes,” he replied, startled, and with a vision of Sprat. “But I haven’t kept one since I was a boy. But why?”