“His reading the lips,” she said with airy indifference, “doesn’t matter in the least. I have only to do this.” Which announcement was calculated to take the starch out of any fell designs of Auntie’s--if she had them. “But, Agatha,” cried Miss Connaughton, seized by a terrifying thought, “if the man is deaf, how is he going to protect you from the surface cars?” A succession of spasms crossed the face of the escort; his lips moved spasmodically. Then he began to write. When he had finished, he offered Miss Connaughton the pad. Upon it was: “Madam, I guessed rather than read your concern. Let me assure you that when cars approach me I feel the jar.” Auntie sank back, somewhat eased in her mind, but Agatha read the words with staring eyes. Then up came the handkerchief again. “Why,” she exclaimed, “he’s a regular professor of lip-reading!” “Perhaps it’s just as well that he can read the lips,” said Miss Connaughton. “An exigency might arise, dear.” She leaned forward and touched the young man’s arm. “What--is--your--name?” she asked, articulating with exaggerated precision. “If he understands, he’s as bad as a man that can hear,” put in Agatha, from behind her handkerchief. “And I won’t have him.” But the escort was looking from aunt to niece in a puzzled fashion. Finally he shook his head. “Your--name,” repeated Miss Connaughton. Now sudden comprehension illumined his whole face. With an eager nod he seized the pencil and wrote, “In Yonkers.” “You see?” said Miss Connaughton. “He doesn’t always understand.” She graciously wrote the question. Again his face lit up, and he looked a smiling apology. Then he hastily scribbled, “John McVicar.” “Agatha,” said Miss Connaughton, “he’s a little too--er--actory-looking, according to my idea. But, being deaf and dumb, he will never presume----” “Put up your handkerchief,” warned Agatha, colouring. Just then the young man produced his own handkerchief, and began to cough violently into it. (It was a smart affair with a blue-dotted border.) “Don’t cut me off in the middle that way,” said Miss Connaughton petulantly. “There is danger, Agatha, in bringing a strange young man into such close association with you. Have I ever seen any young man spend two hours in your company without----” “Boo!” said Agatha, her dimples playing again. “But,” said Miss Connaughton, “I shall engage him.” So thoroughly satisfied was she with the whole outcome of the matter that she even omitted to call up Mr. Avery to thank him. A few minutes afterward Agatha and the escort were proceeding down Fifth Avenue. It was a walk Agatha always took when opportunity afforded. She liked the shops; she liked the moving lines of vehicles; she liked the swarming humans. Just before the two reached Twenty-third Street, the escort drew to one side for a moment, and wrote something on the pad. It was: “As I do not hear, I must put you to the annoyance of taking my arm when we cross the streets.”