“He’s a fellow that I know very intimately--better than anybody else. Known him for twenty-five years.” “Oh, how old _is_ he?” “Just twenty-five. I’ve known him since he was a baby.” “Is he deaf and dumb?” “He won’t listen, and he won’t gossip,” declared Mr. Avery. “Graduate of an institution?” “Yes.” “But,” objected Agatha, “uniforms are so conspicuous.” “He doesn’t wear one,” answered Mr. Avery. “Does he talk on his fingers?” asked Agatha. “Yes; but if he bothers you (because he’s an absent-minded fellow anyhow), why, you just tell him to muffle his hands in his pockets.” Agatha sent one of her gay ripples over the wire. “But I can’t read finger-talk,” she protested. “I’ve presented him with a pad and pencil. If he wants to scribble too much just give him the pocket-sign. Oh, don’t say you won’t take him,” pleaded Mr. Avery. Agatha covered the transmitter with one hand for a moment. How--er--feelingly he said everything this morning! He didn’t at all sound like himself. “When he comes,” continued Mr. Avery, “don’t forget to smile at him. The kinder you are the happier it’ll make him.” “I won’t. The poor fellow!” “Ah, Miss Agatha, he _is_ a ‘poor fellow.’ So keep him with you just as much as you can. Have him show up before breakfast, and work him all day. He’s an accommodating duck. He wants to come right up.” “Very well,” said Agatha. “Good-bye.” Half an hour later Miss Connaughton and her niece met the escort in the library. For the elder lady it was a moment rich with satisfaction. By now she had forgotten any concessions in Agatha’s favour, and felt that she had brought that wilful young person to terms. As for the tall, good-looking, well-dressed young man who awaited their entrance, he was plainly discomfited. For he was red. “It is gratifying,” said Miss Connaughton, addressing him, “to know that my niece is to have your companionship and protection on her scholastic pilgrimages.” Agatha bowed prettily. Then she remembered Mr. Avery’s advice. She smiled up at the young man. He took her hand and bent over it, looking down at her intently--perhaps rather too intently--and retaining her fingers a second too long. “Auntie,” reminded Agatha, “he didn’t hear a single word you said.” The next moment the escort drew forth a long, pink-covered pad to which was hung a lead-pencil patriotically wound with the Stars and Stripes. Upon the first clean, white page of the pad he wrote these words, “I understood something of your cordial greeting, madam, because I read the lips.” Agatha stared at the sentence over Miss Connaughton’s shoulder. Then a swift flush of annoyance dyed that particular rounding of her cheeks where her dimples were. He could read the lips! She felt herself tricked. And it was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Auntie, is this your work?” or something equally severe, when she had an inspiration. Up came the dainty square of her handkerchief, to swing as a guard by a thumb and a forefinger.