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.
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