"Let me see. I'm--twenty-three last Tuesday."
The old lady nodded approvingly, as if this were something to his
credit.
"Got any vicious habits?"
Bean weakly began an answer intended to be facetious, and yet leave much
to be inferred regarding his habits. But the Demon would have none of
this.
"Smoke?"
"No!"
"Drink?"
"No!" He desperately wondered if she would know where to stop.
"How's your health? Ever been sick much?"
"I can't remember. I had lumbago when I was seven."
"Humph! Gamble, play cards, bet on races, go around raising cain with a
lot of young devils at night?"
"No, I don't," said Bean, with a hint of sullen defiance. He wanted to
add: "And I don't go round voting and breaking windows, either," but he
was not equal to this.
"Well, I don't know--" She deliberated, adjusting one of her many puffs
of gray hair, and gazing dreamily at a thread of smoke that ascended
from her cigarette. She seemed to be wondering whether or not she ought
to let him off this time. "Well, I don't know. It looks to me as if you
were too good to be true."
She rose and tossed her cigarette out of the window. He thought he was
freed, but at the door she turned suddenly upon him once more.
"What in time _have_ you done? Haven't you ever had any fun?"
But she waited for no answer.
"I knew she'd admire you," said the flapper. "Isn't she a perfectly old
dear?"
"Oh, yes!" gasped Bean. "Yes, yes, yes, indeed! She is _that_!"