“Oh, I’m no king; never was a king; rabbit, I guess.  Little old perfectly upstart rabbit, that’s what!”

“What am I?” asked the flapper pointedly.

“Little old flippant flapper, that’s what!  But you’re my Chubbins just the same; my Chubbins!” and he very softly put his hand to her cheek.

“Monsieur et Madame sont servi,” said the waiter.  He was in the doorway but discreetly surveyed the evening sky through an already polished wine-glass held well aloft.

* * * * *

The three perfectly taggers meeting their just due, consulted miserably as they gathered about a telephone in Paris the following morning.  The Demon had answered the call.

“Says she has it all reasoned out,” announced the Demon.

“’S what she said before,” grunted Breede.  “Tha’s nothing new.”

“And she says we’re snoop-cats and we might as well go back home—­now,” continued the Demon.  “Says she’s got the—­u-u-m-mm!—­says to perfectly quit tagging.”

“Nothing can matter now,” said the bereaved mother.

“He’s talking himself,” said the Demon.  “Mercy he’s got a new voice ... sounds like another man.  He says if we don’t beat it out of here by the next boat—­he can imagine nothing of less—­something or other I can’t hear—­”

“—­consequence,” snapped Breede.

“Yes, that’s it; and now he’s laughing and telling her she’s a perfectly flapper.”

“Oh, my poor child,” murmured the mother.

“Puzzle t’ me,” said Breede.  “I swear I can’t make out just how many kinds of a—­”

“James!” said his wife sternly, and indicated the presence of several interested foreigners.