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.”