He'd better tell her so in plain
words; say, "Look here, I've just netted four hundred thousand dollars,
and no little old steamer for mine. I don't care much for the ocean. We
stay on land. Better understand who's who right at the start."
That is what he would tell the flapper; make it clear to her. She'd had
her own way long enough. Marriage was a serious business. He was still
resolving this when he turned into a shop.
"I want to get a steamer trunk--sailing Wednesday," he said in firm
tones to the clerk.
* * * * *
It was midnight of Tuesday. In the steam-heated apartment Bean paced the
floor. He was attired in the garments prescribed for gentlemen's evening
wear, and he was still pleasantly fretted by the excitement of having
dined with the Breede family at the ponderous town house up east of the
park.
He tried to recall in their order the events of those three days since
he had left the office on Saturday. His coolest efforts failed. It was
like watching a screen upon which many and diverse films were
superimposing scenes in which he was an actor of more or less
consequence, but in which his figure was always blurred. It was
confounding.
Yet he had certainly gone out to that country place Sunday for tea and
things, taking Nap. And the flapper, with a sinful pride, had shown him
off to the family. He and the flapper had clearly been of more
consequence than the big sister and the affianced waster, who wouldn't
be able to earn his own cigarettes, say nothing of his ties and gloves.
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