nd all that meat and
stuff," supplemented Bean firmly.

He tried one of two doors that opened from the drawing-room and exposed
a bedroom. His, evidently. There was the little old steamer trunk. He
discovered a bathroom adjoining and was presently suffering the
celestial agonies of a cold bath with no waster to coerce him.

He dressed with indignant muttering, and with occasional glances out at
that supreme upstart's memorial. He chose his suit of the most legible
checks. He had been a little fearful about it in New York. It was rather
advanced, even for one of that Wall Street gang that had netted himself
four hundred thousand dollars. Now he donned it intrepidly.

And, with no emotion whatever but a certain grim sureness of himself, he
at last adjusted the entirely red cravat. He gloated upon this
flagrantly. He hastily culled seven cravats of neutral tint and hurled
them contemptuously into a waste-basket. Done with that kind!

He heard a waiter in the drawing-room serving his breakfast. He drew on
a dark-lined waistcoat of white pique--like the one worn by the oldest
director the day Ram-tah had winked--then the perfectly fitting coat of
unmistakable checks, and went out to sit at the table. He was resolving
at the moment that he would do everything he had ever been afraid to do.
"'S only way show you're not afraid," he muttered. He was wearing a
cravat he had always feared to wear, and now he would devour meat things
for breakfast, whatever the flapper thought about it.

When he had a little dulled the edge of his hunger, he rang a bell.

"Find m' wife," he commanded the Swiss youth, only to be met with a look
of blankness. He was considering if it might do him good to make a row
about this--he had always been afraid to make rows--but the other door
of the drawing-room opened. His wife was found.

"'S all for 's aft'noon," he exploded to the servitor, who seemed not
displeased to withdraw from this authoritative presence. Then he engaged
a slice of bacon with a ruthless fork.

"Where you _been_?" he demanded of the flapper. Only way to do--go at
them hammer and tongs!

The flapper gazed at him from the doorway. She was still pale and there
were reddened circles about her eyes. The little old rag of a morning
robe she wore added to her pallor and gave her an unaccustomed look of
fragility.

"Where you been all the time?" repeated her husband with the arrogance
of a confirmed upstart.

The flapper seemed