"--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.
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