Agatha looked at him in grave astonishment. “I thought the picture dreadful,” she answered, “but the artist needs money. It’s the third I’ve bought.” He gave a hearty laugh. (She was relieved to find it clear and pleasantly modulated.) “I thought you were a sociological student. Do you favour indiscriminate charity, Miss Agatha?” “I am opposed to it, theoretically, but we cannot judge the failures and condemn them and deny them help unless we first know what has been their _milieu_.” “What a generous, womanly thought!” he commented. Presently he added, apropos of nothing, “You would be all forgiveness.” His expression became more grave than her own. Agatha might have thought him too personal, even impertinent, but there was that level gaze, all honest admiration. Auntie herself could not have taken umbrage. Nobody could have. His eyes were grey--a very dark, expressive grey. She met them steadily for a moment. Then her own fell, and those long, up-curling, black lashes swept a cheek which had grown suddenly rosy. He was writing again. “I can understand almost every word you say when your face is near.” “Really?” she asked him. He had leaned toward her. “Really,” he answered on the pad. So Agatha moved close. “I--am--so--glad,” she said, articulating carefully. Her eyes grew moist with earnestness. He lived in a world of silence. Oh! the tragedy of it! He looked his gratitude. It was strange how perfectly he seemed to know what she had said; for he had not watched her lips: he had watched her dimples. It was so slow and difficult putting things down that soon he devised ways of conversing more readily. He formed swift letters in the air with one forefinger, or scratched them in the dirt with her parasol. Five o’clock found them still in the square. Agatha was surprised when she discovered how late it was. She signalled a passing taxicab, and they were whirled home together. “Aren’t we going somewhere to-night?” he asked as they neared the end of their ride. She looked rueful. “I’m--afraid--I--can’t,” she said. Her face was lifted. His head was lowered attentively, so that his hat-brim touch the fluff of her hair. “I’ve--promised--to--see--a--play--with--Auntie. But--after--this--I--shan’t--make--engagements--that--will--conflict-- with--my work.” When they entered the library Miss Connaughton had fresh tea brought. “I trust,” said she, “that nothing unpleasant happened to-day.” Agatha pondered, the tip of her teaspoon against the tip of her chin. “No,” she said. “Only, we met a friend of Mr. McVicar’s. But he was _not_ d-- and d--.” “D-- and d--!” Miss Connaughton was horrified. “Hush, Agatha! It sounds profane.” But Agatha was smiling into her cup. There was a “to-morrow’s visitor” floating in it--a tall visitor. She lifted it to the back of one hand and struck it smartly with the back of the other. It transferred itself. She gave Mr. McVicar a swift glance.