Miss Woodburn and Fulkerson came in from the other room. “What! You're not going, Beaton?”
“Yes; I'm going to a reception. I stopped in on my way.”
“To kill time,” Alma explained.
“Well,” said Fulkerson, gallantly, “this is the last place I should like to do it. But I guess I'd better be going, too. It has sometimes occurred to me that there is such a thing as staying too late. But with Brother Beaton, here, just starting in for an evening's amusement, it does seem a little early yet. Can't you urge me to stay, somebody?”
The two girls laughed, and Miss Woodburn said:
“Mr. Beaton is such a butterfly of fashion! Ah wish Ah was on mah way to a pawty. Ah feel quahte envious.”
“But he didn't say it to make you,” Alma explained, with meek softness.
“Well, we can't all be swells. Where is your party, anyway, Beaton?” asked Fulkerson. “How do you manage to get your invitations to those things? I suppose a fellow has to keep hinting round pretty lively, Neigh?”
Beaton took these mockeries serenely, and shook hands with Miss Woodburn, with the effect of having already shaken hands with Alma. She stood with hers clasped behind her.