"I like _you_ in that," he retorted with equal vagueness, at last stung
to speech.
"Oh, this!" explained the flapper in pleased deprecation. "It's just a
little old rag. What's his darling name?"
"Eh? Name? Napoleon, Man and--I mean Napoleon. I call him Nap," he said
shortly, feeling himself in chameleon-like sympathy with the cravat.
Grandma, on the seat in front of them, stared silently ahead, but there
was something ominous in her rigidity. She had the air of a captor.
Once when his hand was on Nap the flapper brazenly patted it. He
pretended not to notice.
"Everything's all right," she said.
"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.
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