At what he judged to be four-thirty a spirited rap sounded on the door.

"C'min," yelled Breede.

Entered the flapper. Breede looked up.

"Seddown! View of efforts bein' made b' cert'n parties t' s'cure 'trol
of comp'ny by promise of creatin' stock script on div'dend basis, it is
proper f'r d'rectors t' state policy has been--"

The flapper had sat down and was looking intently at Bean. There was no
coquetry in the look. It was a look of interest and one wholly in
earnest. Bean became aware of it at Breede's first pause. At any other
time he would have lowered his eyes before an assault so direct and
continuous. Now in his hot rage he included the flapper in the glare he
put upon her unconscious father.

He saw that she was truly enough a flapper; not a day over eighteen, he
was sure. Not tall; almost "pudgy," with a plump, browned face and gray
eyes like old Breede's, that looked through you. He noted these details
without enthusiasm. Then he relented a little because of her dress. The
shoes--he always looked first at a woman's shoes and lost interest in
her if those were not acceptable--were of tan leather and low, with
decently high heels. (He loathed common-sense shoes on women.) The hose
were of tan silk. So far he approved. She wore a tailored suit of blue
and had removed the jacket. The shirtwaist--he knew they were called
"lingerie waists" in the windows--was of creamy softness and had the
lines of the thing called "style." Her hat was a straw that drooped
becomingly. "Some dresser, all right!" he thought, and then, "Why don't
she take a look at old Cufflets there, and get him in right?"

Again and again he hardened his gaze upon her. Her eyes always met his,
not with any recognition of him as a human being, but with some curious
interest that seemed remote yet not impersonal. He indignantly tried to
out-stare her, but the thing was simply not to be done. Even looking
down at her feet steadily didn't dash her brazenness. She didn't seem to
care where _he_ looked. After a very few minutes of this he kept his
eyes upon his note-book with dignified absorption. But he could feel her
glance.

"--to c'nserve investment rep'sented by this stock upon sound basis
rather than th' spec'lative policy of larger an' fluc'chating div'dends
yours ver' truly what time's 'at game called?"

Thus concluded Breede, with a sudden noisy putting away of papers in an
open drawer at his side.

Bean looked up at him, in open-mo