"You are taking a little walk," he said, with a very slight foreign accent. "If you will let me walk with you a little way I shall be honoured. The Park? A delightful day for the Park! Let us walk over the grass, as we may do in this free country. I have something to tell you, Miss Hannaford."
"That's nice of you, Mr. Florio. So few people tell one anything one doesn't know; but yours is sure to be real news."
"It is--I assure you it is. But, first of all, I was thinking on the 'bus--I often ride on the 'bus, it gives one ideas--I was thinking what a pity they do not use the back of the 'bus driver to display advertisements. It is a loss of space. Those men are so beautifully broad, and one looks at their backs, and there is nothing, nothing to see but an ugly coat. I shall mention my little scheme to a friend of mine, a very practical man."
Olga laughed merrily.
"Oh, you are too clever, Mr. Florio!"
"Oh, I have my little ideas. Do you know, I've just come back from Italy."
"I envy you--I mean, I envy you for having been there."
"Ah, that is your mistake, dear Miss Hannaford! That is the mistake of the romantic English young lady. Italy? Yes, there is a blue sky--not always. Yes, there are ruins that interest, if one is educated. And, there is misery, misery! Italy is a poor country, poor, poor, poor, poor." He intoned the words as if speaking his own language. "And poverty is the worst thing in the world. You make an illusion for yourself, Miss Hannaford. For a holiday when one's rich, yes, Italy is not bad--though there is fever, and there are thieves--oh, thieves! Of course The man who is poor will steal--_ecco_! It amuses me, when the English talk of Italy."
"But you are proud of--of your memories?"
"Memories!" Mr. Florio laughed a whole melody. "One is not proud of former riches when one has become a beggar. It is you, the English, who can be proud of the past, because you can be proud of the present. You have grown free, free, free! Rich, rich, rich, ah!"
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.
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."