“And he won't come any more?” her mother sighed, with reserved censure.
“Oh, I think he will. He couldn't very well come the next night. But he has the habit of coming, and with Mr. Beaton habit is everything—even the habit of thinking he's in love with some one.”
“Alma,” said her mother, “I don't think it's very nice for a girl to let a young man keep coming to see her after she's refused him.”
“Why not, if it amuses him and doesn't hurt the girl?”
“But it does hurt her, Alma. It—it's indelicate. It isn't fair to him; it gives him hopes.”
“Well, mamma, it hasn't happened in the given case yet. If Mr. Beaton comes again, I won't see him, and you can forbid him the house.”
“If I could only feel sure, Alma,” said her mother, taking up another branch of the inquiry, “that you really knew your own mind, I should be easier about it.”
“Then you can rest perfectly quiet, mamma. I do know my own mind; and, what's worse, I know Mr. Beaton's mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he spoke to me the other night simply because Mr. Fulkerson's engagement had broken him all up.”