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.
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