A shrewd-looking, rather trim old lady with carefully coiffed hair stood in the doorway.
"Don't let me disturb you," she said, and again Bean murmured.
"Mr. Bean, my grandmother," said the flapper.
"Keep right on with your work, young man," said the old lady in commanding tones, when Bean had acknowledged the presentation. "I like to watch it."
She sat in another chair, very straight in her lavender dress, and joined with the flapper in her survey of the wage-slave. This was undoubtedly Grandma, the Demon.
Bean continued his work, thinking as best he could above the words of Breede, that she must be a pretty raw old party, going around, voting, smashing windows, leading her innocent young grandchild into the same reckless life. Nice thing, that! He was not surprised when he heard a match lighted a moment later, and knew that Grandma was smoking a cigarette. Expect anything of that sort!
He had wished they would go before he finished the last letter, but they sat on, and Grandma filled the room with smoke.
"Now he's through!" proclaimed the flapper.
"How old are you?" asked Grandma, as Bean arose nervously from the machine.
He tried jauntily to make it appear that he must "count up."
"Let me see. I'm—twenty-three last Tuesday."
