He found he could strangely not be an upstart another moment in the presence of that flapper. He was over kneeling beside her, reaching his arms up about her, pressing her cheek down to his. The flapper held him tightly and wept.
"There, there!" he soothed her, smoothing the golden brown hair that spilled about her shoulders. "No one ever going to hurt you while I'm around. You're the just perfectly dearest, if you come right down to it. Now, now! 'S all right. Everything all right!"
"It's those perfectly old taggers," exploded the flapper, suddenly recovering her true form, "just furiously tagging."
"'S got to stop right now," declared Bean, rising. "Wipe that egg off your face, and let's get out of here."
"London," she suggested brightly. "Granny has always"
"No London!" he broke in, visibly returning to the Corsican or upstart manner. "And no Grandma, no Pops, no Moms! You and me—us understand what I mean? Think I'm going to have my wife sloshing around over there, voting, smashing windows, getting run in and sent to the island for thirty days. No! Not for little old George W. Me!"
"I never wanted to so very much," confessed the flapper with surprising meekness. "You tell where to go, then."
Bean debated. Baseball! Perhaps there would be a game on the home grounds that day. Paris
