“But,” Agatha scribbled back, “I thought you could hear rumbles.” “Not wagon rumbles.” Agatha took his arm--and kept it. She found the going noticeably pleasanter. He walked with his chin in, his shoulders back, his look straight ahead. Every now and then she glanced up at him, sidewise, from under the dancing plumes of the crocus confection. After which she always shook her head sadly. “What a pity he is d-- and d--,” she said to herself. She could not bear, somehow, to say the whole words. They were threading their way slowly along Avenue A when the escort was saluted by a friend--quite a presentable young man, who gave Mr. McVicar a resounding slap upon the shoulder. (Agatha had been separated from her escort by struggling pedestrians.) “Hello, Cub!” sang out the presentable young man. Mr. McVicar turned with a start, glared for a second, went white and red by incredibly swift turns, and then--strode on. “I say, Cub!” persisted the other. “_Cub!_ Where you steering?” The escort now halted abruptly, excused himself to Agatha by a bow, led the young man away a few steps, produced the pad and pencil, and inscribed a line. Whatever the statement was, the young man met it with relish and composure. He had, by now, caught sight of Agatha. So he removed his hat and swept the air with it. Then, grinning, he pulled off a glove and made a few, swift finger-signs. He must have signalled something rude, for as Mr. McVicar wheeled abruptly and joined Agatha, his expression was furious. And presently, having torn away a leaf of the pad, he wrote: “Morrison is a rank idiot. Known me a long time, but always forgets my infirmity.” Infirmity! Agatha, as she tripped along, saw buildings and people suddenly reel and blur--through a mist of tears. His society had been thrust upon her: she had rebelled at it. Yet hers was a tender little heart, and that tender little heart ached to think how frankly he referred to what would have been worse than death to most men. Ah! _that_ was the kind of bravery she liked! (They had come to a crossing where the pavement was torn up. She took his arm again.) She resolved not to make his first day a difficult one, so she hailed a cross-town car that would carry them near to Macdougal Alley. She had promised to see a certain painting in one of the studios there. When they had seen it Agatha was thirsty. They sought a drug-store and had, each, a glass of sticky lemon-soda. Next, Agatha was tired. They made toward the nearest square and sat down. It was one of those late summer days that suggest the nearing autumn: the sun was not too warm, the breeze was not too cool, and there was a delicious leafy smell in the air. Agatha leaned back, and dilated her nostrils to drink it all in. Mr. McVicar, however, drove his pencil busily. “That picture you selected,” he wrote “--you thought the subject good?”