inute, and you can run about in it with that
dearest dog, and it's the very first thing I ever gave you, isn't it?
I'll always remember it just for that. It will do us all right for a few
weeks, until we can look around. And there never was any one before, was
there? You just needn't answer; you'd have to say 'No,' and anyway
Granny says a young--you know what--should never ask silly questions
about what happened before she met him, because it perfectly well makes
rows, and I know she's right, but there never _was_, was there, and no
matter anyway, because it's settled forever now, and we _do_, don't we?
My! but I'm excited. Don't forget what I said about the brass andirons
and the curtains for your den. Goo'-bye."

"Huh! yes, of course not!" said Bean, but the flapper had gone.

Back at the typewriter he tried to collect his memories of her message:
sideboard with darling feet of some kind, no fumed oak, perhaps--brass
andirons, curtains for his den. He couldn't recall what she had said
about those. Maybe it would come to him. He wished he had told her that
he already had a few good etchings. And the car! That was plain in his
mind--little old last year's thing--at that shop around the corner. Did
one say "garrash" or "garrige"? He heard both.

Anyway, he owned a motor car; you couldn't get around that. Maybe Bulger
wouldn't open his eyes if he knew it. Bulger was an authority on cars,
and spoke in detail of their strange insides with the aplomb of a man
who has dissected them for years. He had violent disputes with the
second bookkeeper about which was the best car for the money. The
bookkeeper actually owned a motorcycle, or would, after he had paid five
dollars a month a few more times, but Bulger would never allow this
minor contrivance to be brought into their discussions. Bulger was
intolerant of anything costing under five thou'--eat you up with
repairs.

Bean longed to approach Bulger and say:

"Some dame, that! Just sent me a little old last year's car."

But he knew this would never do. Bulger would not only tell him why the
car was of an inferior make, but he would want to borrow it to take a
certain party, or maybe the gang, out for a spin, and get everybody
killed or arrested or something. Bulger dressed fearlessly; no one with
eyes could deny that; but he was tactless. Better keep that car under
cover.

At seven-thirty that evening, with Nap on a leash, he strolled into the
garage. He carried the