“Oh, all right!  We’ll wait for you,” said the flapper.  “Right there,” she added, pointing to the most expensive pergola on the place.

In the dusk of an hour later he slunk stealthily down a rear stairway and made a cautious detour into the grounds.  He earnestly meant to keep far from that pergola.  Wait for him, would they?  Well, he’d show them!  Always spying on a man; hounding him!  What business was it of theirs whether he had habits or not ... any kind of habits?

But he was to find himself under a spell such as is said to bring the weak-willed bird to the serpent’s maw.  His traitorous feet dragged him toward the trap.  The odour of a cigarette drew his revolted nostrils.  He could hear the murmurous duet.

Talking about him!  Of course!  He would like to break in on them and for a little while be a certain Corsican upstart in one of his most objectionable moods.  That would take them down a bit.  But, instead, he became something entirely different.  With the stealth of the red Indian he effaced himself against a background of well-groomed shrubbery and crept toward the murmur.  At last he could hear words above the beating of his heart.

“How can you know?” the Demon was saying.  “A child of your age?”

The flapper’s tone was calm and confident as one who relates a phenomenon that has become a commonplace.

“I knew it the very first second I ever saw him—­something went over me just like that—­I can’t tell how, but I knew.”

“Well, how can you know about him?”

“Oh, him!” The words implied that the flapper had waved a deprecating hand.  “Why, I know about him in just the same way; you can’t tell how.  It comes over you!”

The Demon:  (A long-drawn) “U-u-mm!”

The flapper:  “And he makes me perfectly furious sometimes, too!”

There was a stir as if they were leaving.  Bean retreated a dozen feet before he breathed again.  So that was their game, was it?  He’d see about that!

He waited for them to emerge, but they had apparently settled to more of this high-handed talk.  Then, like an icy wave to engulf him, came a name—­“Tommy Hollins.”  It came in the Demon’s voice, indistinguishable words preceding it.  And in the flapper’s voice came “Tommy Hollins!” gently, caressingly, it seemed.  In truth, the flapper had sniffed before uttering it, and the sniff had meant good-natured contempt but Bean had lost the sniff.

Now he had it!  Tommy Hollins!  He identified the youth, a yellow-headed, pink-faced lout in flannels who was always riding over, and who seemed to “go in” for nearly everything.  He had detected a romping intimacy between the two.  So it was Tommy Hollins.  At once he felt a great relief; he need worry no longer over the singular attentions of this young woman.  Let Tommy Hollins worry!  He could admit, now, how grave had been his alarm.  And there was nothing in it.  He could meet her without being afraid.  He was almost ready to approach them genially and pass an hour in light conversation.  He advanced a few steps with this intention, but again came the voice of the flapper replying, apparently, to some unheard admonition.  It came, cold and terrible.