He saw that she was truly enough a flapper; not a day over eighteen, he was sure.  Not tall; almost “pudgy,” with a plump, browned face and gray eyes like old Breede’s, that looked through you.  He noted these details without enthusiasm.  Then he relented a little because of her dress.  The shoes—­he always looked first at a woman’s shoes and lost interest in her if those were not acceptable—­were of tan leather and low, with decently high heels. (He loathed common-sense shoes on women.) The hose were of tan silk.  So far he approved.  She wore a tailored suit of blue and had removed the jacket.  The shirtwaist—­he knew they were called “lingerie waists” in the windows—­was of creamy softness and had the lines of the thing called “style.”  Her hat was a straw that drooped becomingly.  “Some dresser, all right!” he thought, and then, “Why don’t she take a look at old Cufflets there, and get him in right?”

Again and again he hardened his gaze upon her.  Her eyes always met his, not with any recognition of him as a human being, but with some curious interest that seemed remote yet not impersonal.  He indignantly tried to out-stare her, but the thing was simply not to be done.  Even looking down at her feet steadily didn’t dash her brazenness.  She didn’t seem to care where he looked.  After a very few minutes of this he kept his eyes upon his note-book with dignified absorption.  But he could feel her glance.

“—­to c’nserve investment rep’sented by this stock upon sound basis rather than th’ spec’lative policy of larger an’ fluc’chating div’dends yours ver’ truly what time’s ’at game called?”

Thus concluded Breede, with a sudden noisy putting away of papers in an open drawer at his side.

Bean looked up at him, in open-mouthed fear for his sanity.

“Hello, Pops!” said the flapper.

“’Lo, Sis!  What time’s ’at game called?”

“Three,” said Bean, still alarmed.

Breede looked at his watch.

“Jus’ got time to make it.”

He arose from the desk.  Bean arose.  The flapper arose.

“Take y’ up in car,” said Breede, most amazingly.

Bean pulled his collar from about his suddenly constricted throat.

“Letters!” He pointed to the note-book.

“Have ’em ready Monday noon.  C’mon!  Two-thirty now.”

The early hour was as incredible as this social phenomenon.

“Daughter!” said Breede, with half a glance at the flapper, and deeming that he had performed a familiar social rite.

“Pleased to meet you!” said Bean, dazedly.  The flapper jerked her head in a double nod.

Of the interval that must have elapsed before he found himself seated in the grandstand between Breede and the flapper he was able to recall but little.  It was as if a dense fog shut him in.  Once it lifted and he suffered a vision of himself in a swiftly propelled motor-car, beside an absorbed mechanician.  He half turned in his seat and met the cool, steady gaze of the flapper; she smiled, but quickly checked herself to resume the stare; he was aware that Breede was at her side.  And the fog closed in again.  It was too unbelievable.