He clenched his two hands. “Yes, I have been punished,” he wrote. “If you ever have to pass judgment upon me, remember that.”
“Was—it—so—dreadful—what—you—did?”
He thought a moment. “Not when you consider the temptation.”
“What—was—the—temptation?”
He hesitated so long that she believed he had not understood her. So she wrote the question, “What was the temptation?”
“A girl.”
Agatha shrank back in sudden, inexplicable indignation. Then she rose abruptly. She had meant to tell him that if he were to regain both speech and hearing it would make no difference in their arrangements. But now——
He rose, also, and dropped the pad into a pocket. Then he handed her the parasol. His attitude was one of resignation.
Walking homeward, Agatha looked straight ahead, and two bright, red spots burned in a circle about her dimples. At the bottom of the Connaughton flight, she gave him a dignified good-morning. He held out a card to her. Then he raised his hat.
All that afternoon Agatha wandered about the library. She felt a surprising indifference toward her thesis. Every little while she drew forth Mr. McVicar’s card. It contained, in addition to his name, a line written in pencil, “Telephone, River 0630.” Why had he written that? She had no further need of him!