Agatha pondered, the tip of her teaspoon against the tip of her chin. “No,” she said. “Only, we met a friend of Mr. McVicar’s. But he was not d— and d—.”
“D— and d—!” Miss Connaughton was horrified. “Hush, Agatha! It sounds profane.”
But Agatha was smiling into her cup. There was a “to-morrow’s visitor” floating in it—a tall visitor. She lifted it to the back of one hand and struck it smartly with the back of the other. It transferred itself. She gave Mr. McVicar a swift glance.
He was holding his cup aloft. Across its rim his grey eyes were watching her.
She held up the “visitor” triumphantly.
He nodded.
The following day the “tall visitor” came again, and he and Agatha took their second walk down the avenue. Agatha had on a blue linen. It enhanced her colour charmingly. Mr. McVicar carried her parasol, a new one with a brass tip. She was in the best of humour, and stood on her toes now and then while she said something. He was in the best of humour, too. But of a sudden his face became very sober, even anxious. He began to take longer steps.
Agatha remarked his nervousness. She looked round. There were three young men close at hand who seemed to be observing Mr. McVicar. They were well-groomed young men. “Collegy,” was Agatha’s verdict.
Just then a young man approached them, going the other way. He took off his hat politely with one hand; with the fingers of the other he signed the escort an elaborate good-day.
Mr. McVicar gave him a cold stare.