"We've done it," rejoiced the flapper. "Serve the perfectly old taggers good and plenty right!"
Bean lifted a final gaze to the laurel-crowned Believer. He knew that Believer's secret now.
"What a stunning tie," exclaimed the flapper. "It just perfectly does something to you."
"'S little old last year's tie," said her husband carelessly.
| · | · | · | · | · | · | · |
At six-thirty that evening they were resting on a balcony overlooking the garden of a hotel at Versailles. Back of them in the little parlour a waiter was setting a most companionable small table for two. Such little sounds as he made were thrilling. They liked the hotel much. Its management seemed to have been expecting them ever since the building's erection, and to have reserved precisely that nest for them.
They had been "doing" the palace. A little self-conscious, in their first free solitude, they had agreed that the palace would be instructive. Through interminable galleries they had gone, inspecting portraits of the dead who had made and marred French history . . . led on by a guide whose amiable delusion it was that he spoke English. The flapper had been chiefly exercised in comparing the palace, to its disadvantage, with a certain house to be surrounded on all sides by scenery and embellished with perfectly patent laundry tubs.
