Agatha reflected that there were more d-- and d-- people in the world than she had ever imagined. Presently she noticed that Mr. McVicar was not eating. “Don’t you like the goulash?” she wrote. “I have a headache,” he answered. “You must go home, then.” “But the Amalgamated Shirt-Makers?” At this juncture the seven young men opposite got up and filed slowly out, each working a right hand in what seemed to be a friendly adieu. When Mr. McVicar rose his lips were pressed together as if he were striving to master himself. He refrained from looking at Agatha and fiddled with his hat. She saw how ill he was. Her expression grew troubled and wistful. “A hansom,” she said to the head waiter. But she did not send Mr. McVicar home. She let him drive to her aunt’s with her. On the way, for some reason or other, Mr. McVicar grew much brighter. “Where do we go to-morrow?” he asked. Agatha stole a glance toward him. “To-morrow,” she said, “I--shall-- devote--to--automorphic--deductions--and--to--the--correlation--of-- all--the--new--concrete--examples--I--have--noted.” “Then you’ll need me,” he declared. “Will--you--be--well--enough?” asked Agatha. “Why, I’m well now.” “Come--then--in--case--I’ve--forgotten--any--of--the--examples.” The following morning they did not go down the avenue, but turned into Central Park at the Sherman statue instead, and out of it again at the West Seventy-second Street entrance. Then they headed toward the Hudson. It was a day even more perfect than the last. The wide topaz river sparkled in the sun. The shaded walks wound invitingly between leaf-strewn stretches of green. There were children at play along the smooth crescents of the drive, and sparrows darted to and fro, chirping. Thus far Agatha had walked, head down and brows puckered--evidently concerned with “automorphic deductions.” (They had gone, in all, some twenty blocks, which was a sufficient distance for any number of deductions.) But now she roused from her thoughts and looked up at Mr. McVicar. His chin was on his breast, his eyes were lowered, and his manner was undisguisedly dejected. She touched his arm. Then she stopped and stood on tiptoe. “Aren’t--you--well--to-day--either?” she inquired, her red mouth very close, so that he would be sure to understand. He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he wrote, “I never felt better or happier in all my life.” When he took the pad again his hand covered hers for a second. Of a sudden her manner became distinctly reserved. Presently they reached a shaded bench. He dusted a seat for her, and they sat down, when he wrote: “But I know my happiness can’t last. I meant to tell you last night. You see, I have an uncle--a lawyer--who thinks I’m wasting my time. I must quit.” Agatha coloured painfully. Mr. Avery had driven a close bargain with him! She hastened to write in return, “You shall get what your uncle thinks is fair.”