"You're a king," declared the flapper in a burst of frankness.

"Eh?" said Bean, a little startled.

"Just a perfectly little old king," persisted the flapper with dreamy
certitude. "Never fooled little George W. Me. Knew it the very first
second. Went over me just like _that_."

"Oh, I'm no king; never was a king; rabbit, I guess. Little old
perfectly upstart rabbit, that's what!"

"What am I?" asked the flapper pointedly.

"Little old flippant flapper, that's what! But you're my Chubbins just
the same; my Chubbins!" and he very softly put his hand to her cheek.

"_Monsieur et Madame sont servi_," said the waiter. He was in the
doorway but discreetly surveyed the evening sky through an already
polished wine-glass held well aloft.

* * * * *

The three perfectly taggers meeting their just due, consulted miserably
as they gathered about a telephone in Paris the following morning. The
Demon had answered the call.

"Says she has it all reasoned out," announced the Demon.

"'S what she said before," grunted Breede. "Tha's nothing new."

"And she says we're snoop-cats and we might as well go back home--now,"
continued the Demon. "Says she's got the--u-u-m-mm!--says to perfectly
quit tagging."

"Nothing can matter now," said the bereaved mother.

"He's talking himself," said the Demon. "Mercy he's got a new
voice ... sounds like another man. He says if we don't beat it out of here
by the next boat--he can imagine nothing of less--something or other I
can't hear--"

"--consequence," snapped Breede.

"Yes, that's it; and now he's laughing and telling her she's a perfectly
flapper."

"Oh, my poor child," murmured the mother.

"Puzzle t' me," said Breede. "I swear I can't make out just how many
kinds of a--"

"James!" said his wife sternly, and indicated the presence of several
interested foreigners.

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