“Why, no, Alma,” returned her mother.
“Well, then,” said Alma.
But Mrs. Leighton was not so easily quelled. She had got her mind on Mr. Beaton, and she could not detach it at once. Besides, she was one of those women (they are commoner than the same sort of men) whom it does not pain to take out their most intimate thoughts and examine them in the light of other people's opinions. “But I don't see how he can behave so. He must know that—”
“That what, mamma?” demanded the girl.
“That he influenced us a great deal in coming—”
“He didn't. If he dared to presume to think such a thing—”
“Now, Alma,” said her mother, with the clinging persistence of such natures, “you know he did. And it's no use for you to pretend that we didn't count upon him in—in every way. You may not have noticed his attentions, and I don't say you did, but others certainly did; and I must say that I didn't expect he would drop us so.”
“Drop us!” cried Alma, in a fury. “Oh!”
“Yes, drop us, Alma. He must know where we are. Of course, Mr. Wetmore's spoken to him about you, and it's a shame that he hasn't been near us. I should have thought common gratitude, common decency, would have brought him after—after all we did for him.”
“We did nothing for him—nothing! He paid his board, and that ended it.”