A few moments later another rap sounded on the door, and again it opened before he could call.  A shrewd-looking, rather trim old lady with carefully coiffed hair stood in the doorway.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” she said, and again Bean murmured.

“Mr. Bean, my grandmother,” said the flapper.

“Keep right on with your work, young man,” said the old lady in commanding tones, when Bean had acknowledged the presentation.  “I like to watch it.”

She sat in another chair, very straight in her lavender dress, and joined with the flapper in her survey of the wage-slave.  This was undoubtedly Grandma, the Demon.

Bean continued his work, thinking as best he could above the words of Breede, that she must be a pretty raw old party, going around, voting, smashing windows, leading her innocent young grandchild into the same reckless life.  Nice thing, that!  He was not surprised when he heard a match lighted a moment later, and knew that Grandma was smoking a cigarette.  Expect anything of that sort!

He had wished they would go before he finished the last letter, but they sat on, and Grandma filled the room with smoke.

“Now he’s through!” proclaimed the flapper.

“How old are you?” asked Grandma, as Bean arose nervously from the machine.

He tried jauntily to make it appear that he must “count up.”

“Let me see.  I’m—­twenty-three last Tuesday.”

The old lady nodded approvingly, as if this were something to his credit.

“Got any vicious habits?”

Bean weakly began an answer intended to be facetious, and yet leave much to be inferred regarding his habits.  But the Demon would have none of this.

“Smoke?”

“No!”

“Drink?”

“No!” He desperately wondered if she would know where to stop.

“How’s your health?  Ever been sick much?”

“I can’t remember.  I had lumbago when I was seven.”

“Humph!  Gamble, play cards, bet on races, go around raising cain with a lot of young devils at night?”

“No, I don’t,” said Bean, with a hint of sullen defiance.  He wanted to add:  “And I don’t go round voting and breaking windows, either,” but he was not equal to this.

“Well, I don’t know—­” She deliberated, adjusting one of her many puffs of gray hair, and gazing dreamily at a thread of smoke that ascended from her cigarette.  She seemed to be wondering whether or not she ought to let him off this time.  “Well, I don’t know.  It looks to me as if you were too good to be true.”

She rose and tossed her cigarette out of the window.  He thought he was freed, but at the door she turned suddenly upon him once more.

“What in time have you done?  Haven’t you ever had any fun?”

But she waited for no answer.

“I knew she’d admire you,” said the flapper.  “Isn’t she a perfectly old dear?”