“You look exactly as you used at school, Agatha. I could almost fancy us back again in Number Six.” Agatha shook her head. “Do I ever look like that--like myself, as I used to be?” “Never,” said Agatha emphatically, turning and surveying the figure of which Miss Carpenter had been the unripe antecedent. “But why?” said Jane querulously. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I am not so changed.” “You have become an exceedingly fine woman, Jane,” said Agatha gravely, and then, without knowing why, turned her attentive gaze upon Sir Charles, who bore it uneasily, and left the room. A minute later he returned with two buff envelopes in his hand. “A telegram for you, Miss Wylie, and one for Chester.” Erskine started up, white with vague fears. Agatha’s color went, and came again with increased richness as she read: “I have arrived safe and ridiculously happy. Read a thousand things between the lines. I will write tomorrow. Good night.” “You may read it,” said Agatha, handing it to Jane. “Very pretty,” said Jane. “A shilling’s worth of attention--exactly twenty words! He may well call himself an economist.” Suddenly a crowing laugh from Erskine caused them to turn and stare at him. “What nonsense!” he said, blushing. “What a fellow he is! I don’t attach the slightest importance to this.” Agatha took a corner of his telegram and pulled it gently. “No, no,” he said, holding it tightly. “It is too absurd. I don’t think I ought--” Agatha gave a decisive pull, and read the message aloud. It was from Trefusis, thus: “I forgive your thoughts since Brandon’s return. Write her to-night, and follow your letter to receive an affirmative answer in person. I promised that you might rely on me. She loves you.” “I never heard of such a thing in my life,” said Jane. “Never!” “He is certainly a most unaccountable man,” said Sir Charles. “I am glad, for my own sake, that he is not so black as he is painted,” said Agatha. “You may believe every word of it, Mr. Erskine. Be sure to do as he tells you. He is quite certain to be right.” “Pooh!” said Erskine, crumpling the telegram and thrusting it into his pocket as if it were not worth a second thought. Presently he slipped away, and did not reappear. When they were about to retire, Sir Charles asked a servant where he was. “In the library, Sir Charles; writing.” They looked significantly at one another and went to bed without disturbing him. CHAPTER XVIII