“Of course,” he answered, believing nevertheless that everything was all wrong.

They had come swiftly to the country and now swept along a wide highway that narrowed in perspective far and straight ahead of them.  He watched the road, grateful for the slight hypnotic effect of its lines running toward him.  He must play the waiting game.

“Here’s the inn,” said the flapper.  They turned into a big green yard and drew up at the steps of a rambling old house begirt with wide piazzas on which tables were set.  This would be the nice place where he was to give them tea and things.  They descended from the car, and he was aware that they pleasantly drew the attention of many people who were already there having tea and things:  the big car and Grandma and the flapper in her little old rag and Nap still panting ecstatically, and, not least, himself in dignified and a little bit different apparel, lightly grasping the yellow stick and the quite as yellow gloves.  It was horribly open and conspicuous, he felt; still, getting out of a car like that—­and the flapper’s little old rag was something that had to be looked at—­he was drunk with it.  Following a waiter to a table he felt that the floor was not meeting his feet.

They were seated!  The shocking affair was on.  The waiter inclined a deferential ear to the gentleman from the large and costly car.

“Tea and things,” said the gentleman with a very bored manner indeed, and turned to rebuke the rare and costly dog with harsh words for his excessive emotion at the prospect of food.

The waiter manifested delight at the command; one could not help seeing that he considered it precisely the right one.  He moved importantly off.  The three regarded each other a moment.

Bean played the waiting game.  The flapper played her ancient game of looking at him in that curious way.  Grandma looked at them both, then meaningly at Bean.  She spoke.

“I’ll say very frankly that I wouldn’t marry you myself.”

He blinked, then he pretended to search with his eyes for their vanished waiter.  But it was no good.  He had to face the Demon, helpless.

“But that’s nothing to your discredit, and it isn’t a question of me,” she added dispassionately.

His inner voice chanted, “Play the waiting game; play the waiting game.”

“Every woman with a head on her knows what she wants when she sees it.  And nowadays, thanks to the efforts of a few noble leaders of our sex, she has the right and the courage to take it.  I haven’t wasted any time talking to her.”  She indicated the flapper, who still fixed the implacable look on Bean.

“If she doesn’t know at nineteen, she never would—­”

“We’ve settled all that,” said the flapper loftily.  “Haven’t we?”

Bean nodded.  All at once that look of the flapper’s began to be intelligible.  He could almost read it.

“I suppose you expect me to talk a lot of that stuff about marriage being a serious business,” continued the Demon evenly.  “But I shan’t.  Marriage isn’t half as serious as living alone is.  It’s what we were made for in my time, and your time isn’t a bit different, young man.”