But the escort was looking from aunt to niece in a puzzled fashion. Finally he shook his head.
“Your—name,” repeated Miss Connaughton.
Now sudden comprehension illumined his whole face. With an eager nod he seized the pencil and wrote, “In Yonkers.”
“You see?” said Miss Connaughton. “He doesn’t always understand.” She graciously wrote the question.
Again his face lit up, and he looked a smiling apology. Then he hastily scribbled, “John McVicar.”
“Agatha,” said Miss Connaughton, “he’s a little too—er—actory-looking, according to my idea. But, being deaf and dumb, he will never presume——”
“Put up your handkerchief,” warned Agatha, colouring.
Just then the young man produced his own handkerchief, and began to cough violently into it. (It was a smart affair with a blue-dotted border.)
“Don’t cut me off in the middle that way,” said Miss Connaughton petulantly. “There is danger, Agatha, in bringing a strange young man into such close association with you. Have I ever seen any young man spend two hours in your company without——”
“Boo!” said Agatha, her dimples playing again.