“Auntie,” reminded Agatha, “he didn’t hear a single word you said.”
The next moment the escort drew forth a long, pink-covered pad to which was hung a lead-pencil patriotically wound with the Stars and Stripes. Upon the first clean, white page of the pad he wrote these words, “I understood something of your cordial greeting, madam, because I read the lips.”
Agatha stared at the sentence over Miss Connaughton’s shoulder. Then a swift flush of annoyance dyed that particular rounding of her cheeks where her dimples were. He could read the lips! She felt herself tricked. And it was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Auntie, is this your work?” or something equally severe, when she had an inspiration. Up came the dainty square of her handkerchief, to swing as a guard by a thumb and a forefinger.
“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.”