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.