“Well, you're as much in the dark as I am myself, then,” said Fulkerson. “I suppose I meant that Beaton is rather—a—favorite, you know. The women like him.”
Mrs. Leighton sighed, and Colonel Woodburn rose and left the room.
In the silence that followed, Fulkerson looked from one lady to the other with dismay. “I seem to have put my foot in it, somehow,” he suggested, and Miss Woodburn gave a cry of laughter.
“Poo' Mr. Fulkerson! Poo' Mr. Fulkerson! Papa thoat you wanted him to go.”
“Wanted him to go?” repeated Fulkerson.
“We always mention Mr. Beaton when we want to get rid of papa.”
“Well, it seems to me that I have noticed that he didn't take much interest in Beaton, as a general topic. But I don't know that I ever saw it drive him out of the room before!”
“Well, he isn't always so bad,” said Miss Woodburn. “But it was a case of hate at first sight, and it seems to be growin' on papa.”
“Well, I can understand that,” said Fulkerson. “The impulse to destroy Beaton is something that everybody has to struggle against at the start.”
“I must say, Mr. Fulkerson,” said Mrs. Leighton, in the tremor through which she nerved herself to differ openly with any one she liked, “I never had to struggle with anything of the kind, in regard to Mr. Beaton. He has always been most respectful and—and—considerate, with me, whatever he has been with others.”