Nothing was said for a minute or so, all listening to Charley’s retiring footsteps.
“Mrs. Carter,” said Mary, “Mr. Frobisher knows something about the Don that we do not. Don’t you think so, Mr. Whacker?”
I had come in for my breakfast shortly after Mary arrived, looking very sleepy and stupid.
“Hardly, I should think. How could he?”
“And then,” said Mary, “if he knew anything he would have told Mr. Whacker.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“You don’t know him,” said Lucy, laughing. “He is an odd fish if ever there was one. I never could see, though, Mr. Whacker, why people should say he was a woman-hater.”
“A woman-hater!” exclaimed Mary, looking much interested; “a regular misogynist would be such a piquant character!”
“Yes, I have heard that he was. Is it true, Mr. Whacker?” said Alice.
“Charley a woman-hater!” said I, sleepily reaching for the butter. “No—more—than—I—am.” And I gave a frightful yawn.