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.
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