They were inside that desolated house, the door closed fatefully upon them. The waster disappeared. Bean heard the flapper's voice calling cheerily to him from above stairs. A footman disapprovingly ushered him to the midst of an immense drawing-room of most ponderous grandeur, and left him to perish. He sat on the edge of a chair and tried to clear his mind about this enormity he was going to commit. False pretenses! Nothing less. He was not a king at all. He was Bunker Bean, a stenographer, whose father drove an express wagon, and whose grandmother had smoked a pipe. He had never been anything more, nor ever would be. And here he was ... pretending. No wonder Julia had fussed! She had seen through him. How they would all scorn him if they knew what that scoundrelly Balthasar knew. He'd made money, but he had no right to it. He had made that under false pretenses, too, believing money would come naturally to a king. Would they find him out at once, or not until it was too late? He shudderingly recalled a crisis in the ceremony of marriage where some one is invited to make trouble, urged to come forward and say if there isn't some reason why this man and this woman shouldn't be married at all. Could he live through that? Suppose a policeman rushed in, crying, "I forbid the banns! The man is an impostor!" He seemed to remember that banns were often forbidden in novels. Then would he indeed be a thing for contemptuous laughter. Yet, in spite of this dismal foreboding, he was presently conscious of an unusual sense of well-being. It had been growing since they stopped for those eggs, in that fumed oak place. What about the Corsican? Better have been him than no one! He would look at that tomb. Then he would know. He was rather clinging to the idea of the Corsican. It gave him courage. Still, if he could get out peacefully ... He stepped lightly to the hall and was on the point of seizing his hat when the flapper called down to him. "You just perfectly don't leave this house again!" "Not going to," he answered guiltily. "Looking to see what size hat I wear. Fumed eggs," he concluded triumphantly. He was not again left alone. The waster came back and supposed he would do some golfing "over across." Bean loathed golf and gathered the strange power to say so. "Sooner be a mail-carrier than a golf-player," he answered stoutly. "Looks more fun, anyway." "_My_ word!" exclaimed the waster, "aren't you even keen on watching it?" "Sooner watch a lot of Italians tearing up a street-car track," Bean persisted. "Oh, come!" protested the waster. "Like to have another fumed egg," said Bean. "You've had one too many," declared the waster, knowing that no sober man could speak thus of the sport of kings. Grandma, the Demon, entered and portentously shook hands with him. She seemed to have discovered that marriage was very serious. "Fumed eggs," said Bean, regarding her shrewdly. "What?" demanded Grandma.