He stopped suddenly, feeling that the room had grown still.  He had been hearing a voice, and the voice was his own.  What had he said?  Had he told them he was nothing, after all?  He gazed from face to face with consternation.  They looked at him so curiously.  There was an embarrassing pause.

The flapper, he saw, was patting his hand at the table’s edge.

“No one ever hurt you while I’m around,” he said, and then he glared defiantly at the others.  The old gentleman, whose young friend he was, began an anecdote, saying that of course he couldn’t render the Irish dialect, also that if they had heard it before they were to be sure and let him know.  Apparently no one had heard it before, although Breede left the table for the telephone.

Bean kept the flapper’s hand in his.  And when the anecdote was concluded everybody arose under cover of the applause, and they were in that drawing-room again where the thing had happened.

The waster chattered volubly to every one.  Grandma and the bride’s mother were in earnest but subdued talk in a far corner.  Breede came to them.

“Chap’s plain dotty,” said Breede.  “Knew something was wrong.”

“Your mother’s doing,” said Mrs. Breede.

“U-u-u-mm!” said the Demon.  “I’ll go with them.”

“I shall also go with my child,” said the mother.  “James, you will go too.”

But Breede had acted without waiting to talk.

“Other car’ll be here, ‘n’ I telephoned for quarters on boat.  ’S full up, but they’ll manage.  Chap might cut her throat.”

“U-u-u-mm!” said the Demon.

“Half pas’ ten,” reminded Breede.  “Hurry!”

Bean had accosted the waster.

“Always take fumed eggs for breakfast,” he cautioned.  “Of course, little fruit an’ tea an’ things.”

“Your father’s had a sudden call to Paris.  We’re going with him,” said the Demon, appearing bonneted.

“What boat?” demanded the flapper in quick alarm.

“Your’s,” said the Demon.

“Jolly party, all together,” said Bean cordially.  “He coming, too?” He pointed to the old gentleman, but this it seemed had not been thought of.

“He better come too,” insisted Bean.  “I’m his young friend, and this is indeed a happy moment.  Jus’ little ol’ las’ year’s steamer.”

“You’re tagging,” accused the flapper viciously, turning to the Demon.

* * * * *

Bean awoke late that night, believing he was dead—­that he had fallen in sleep and been laid unto his fathers.  But the narrow grave was unstable.  It heaved and rolled as if to expel him.

Slowly he remembered.  First he identified his present location.  He was in an upper berth of that little old steamer.  Outside a little round window was the whole big ocean and beneath him slept a man from Hartford, Conn.  He had caught the city’s name on the end of the man’s steamer trunk and been enraged by it.  Hartford was a city of rascals.  The man himself looked capable of any infamy.  He was tall and thin, and wore closely trimmed side-whiskers of a vicious iron gray.  He regarded Bean with manifest hostility and had ostentatiously locked a suit-case upon his appearance.