Agatha reflected that there were more d— and d— people in the world than she had ever imagined. Presently she noticed that Mr. McVicar was not eating. “Don’t you like the goulash?” she wrote.
“I have a headache,” he answered.
“You must go home, then.”
“But the Amalgamated Shirt-Makers?”
At this juncture the seven young men opposite got up and filed slowly out, each working a right hand in what seemed to be a friendly adieu.
When Mr. McVicar rose his lips were pressed together as if he were striving to master himself. He refrained from looking at Agatha and fiddled with his hat.
She saw how ill he was. Her expression grew troubled and wistful. “A hansom,” she said to the head waiter. But she did not send Mr. McVicar home. She let him drive to her aunt’s with her.
On the way, for some reason or other, Mr. McVicar grew much brighter. “Where do we go to-morrow?” he asked.
Agatha stole a glance toward him. “To-morrow,” she said, “I—shall—devote—to—automorphic—deductions—and—to—the—correlation—of—all—the—new—concrete—examples—I—have—noted.”
“Then you’ll need me,” he declared.