prompt:
Chapter: I

HIS visit to Paul was as unreal as his night of fog and questioning.
Unseeing he went through prison corridors stinking of carbolic acid to
a room lined with pale yellow settees pierced in rosettes, like the
shoe-store benches he had known as a boy. The guard led in Paul. Above
his uniform of linty gray, Paul's face was pale and without expression.
He moved timorously in response to the guard's commands; he meekly
pushed Babbitt's gifts of tobacco and magazines across the table to the
guard for examination. He had nothing to say but "Oh, I'm getting used
to it" and "I'm working in the tailor shop; the stuff hurts my fingers."

Babbitt knew that in this place of death Paul was already dead. And as
he pondered on the train home something in his own self seemed to have
died: a loyal and vigorous faith in the goodness of the world, a fear of
public disfavor, a pride in success. He was glad that his wife was away.
He admitted it without justifying it. He did not care.

II

Her card read "Mrs. Daniel Judique." Babbitt knew of her as the widow of
a wholesale paper-dealer. She must have been forty or forty-two but he
thought her younger when he saw her in the office, that afternoon. She
had come to inquire about renting an apartment, and he took her away
from the unskilled girl accountant. He was nervously attracted by her
smartness. She was a slender woman, in a black Swiss frock dotted with
white, a cool-looking graceful frock. A broad black hat shaded her face.
Her eyes were lustrous, her soft chin of an agreeable plumpness, and her
cheeks an even rose. Babbitt wondered afterward if she was made up, but
no man living knew less of such arts.

She sat revolving her violet parasol. Her voice was appealing without
being coy. "I wonder if you can help me?"

"Be delighted."

"I've looked everywhere and--I want a little flat, just a bedroom, or
perhaps two, and sitting-room and kitchenette and bath, but I want one
that really has some charm to it, not these dingy places or these new
ones with terrible gaudy chandeliers. And I can't pay so dreadfully
much. My name's Tanis Judique."

"I think maybe I've got just the thing for you. Would you like to chase
around and look at it now?"

"Yes. I have a couple of hours."

In the new Cavendish Apartments, Babbitt had a flat which he had been
holding for Sidney Finkelstein, but at the thought of driving beside
this agreeable woman he threw over his friend Finkelstein, and with a
note of gallantry he proclaimed, "I'll let you see what I can do!"

He dusted the seat of the car for her, and twice he risked death in
showing off his driving.

"You do know how to handle a car!" she said.

He liked her voice. There was, he thought, music in it and a hint of
culture, not a bouncing giggle like Louetta Swanson's.

He boasted, "You know, there's a lot of these fellows that are so scared
and drive so slow that they get in everybody's way. The safest driver
is a fellow that knows how to handle his machine and yet isn't scared to
speed up when it's necessary, don't you think so?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I bet you drive like a wiz."

"Oh, no--I mean--not really. Of course, we had a car--I mean, before
my husband passed on--and I used to make believe drive it, but I don't
think any woman ever learns to drive like a man."

"Well, now, there's some mighty good woman drivers."

"Oh, of course, these women that try to imitate men, and play golf and
everything, and ruin their complexions and spoil their hands!"

"That's so. I never did like these mannish females."

"I mean--of course, I admire them, dreadfully, and I feel so weak and
useless beside them."

"Oh, rats now! I bet you play the piano like a wiz."

"Oh, no--I mean--not really."

"Well, I'll bet you do!" He glanced at her smooth hands, her diamond and
ruby rings. She caught the glance, snuggled her hands together with
a kittenish curving of slim white fingers which delighted him, and
yearned:

"I do love to play--I mean--I like to drum on the piano, but I haven't
had any real training. Mr. Judique used to say I would 've been a
good pianist if I'd had any training, but then, I guess he was just
flattering me."

"I'll bet he wasn't! I'll bet you've got temperament."

"Oh--Do you like music, Mr Babbitt?"

"You bet I do! Only I don't know 's I care so much for all this
classical stuff."

"Oh, I do! I just love Chopin and all those."

"Do you, honest? Well, of course, I go to lots of these highbrow
concerts, but I do like a good jazz orchestra, right up on its toes,
with the fellow that plays the bass fiddle spinning it around and
beating it up with the bow."

"Oh, I know. I do love good dance music. I love to dance, don't you, Mr.
Babbitt?"

"Sure, you bet. Not that I'm very darn good at it, though."

"Oh, I'm sure you are. You ought to let me teach you. I can teach
anybody to dance."

"Would you give me a lesson some time?"

"Indeed I would."

"Better be careful, or I'll be taking you up on that proposition. I'll
be coming up to your flat and making you give me that lesson."

"Ye-es." She was not offended, but she was non-committal. He warned
himself, "Have some sense now, you chump! Don't go making a fool of
yourself again!" and with loftiness he discoursed:

"I wish I could dance like some of these young fellows, but I'll tell
you: I feel it's a man's place to take a full, you might say, a creative
share in the world's work and mold conditions and have something to show
for his life, don't you think so?"

"Oh, I do!"

"And so I have to sacrifice some of the things I might like to tackle,
though I do, by golly, play about as good a game of golf as the next
fellow!"

"Oh, I'm sure you do.... Are you married?"

"Uh--yes.... And, uh, of course official duties I'm the vice-president
of the Boosters' Club, and I'm running one of the committees of the
State Association of Real Estate Boards, and that means a lot of work
and responsibility--and practically no gratitude for it."

"Oh, I know! Public men never do get proper credit."

They looked at each other with a high degree of mutual respect, and at
the Cavendish Apartments he helped her out in a courtly manner, waved
his hand at the house as though he were presenting it to her, and
ponderously ordered the elevator boy to "hustle and get the keys." She
stood close to him in the elevator, and he was stirred but cautious.

It was a pretty flat, of white woodwork and soft blue walls. Mrs.
Judique gushed with pleasure as she agreed to take it, and as they
walked down the hall to the elevator she touched his sleeve, caroling,
"Oh, I'm so glad I went to you! It's such a privilege to meet a man who
really Understands. Oh! The flats SOME people have showed me!"

He had a sharp instinctive belief that he could put his arm around her,
but he rebuked himself and with excessive politeness he saw her to the
car, drove her home. All the way back to his office he raged:

"Glad I had some sense for once.... Curse it, I wish I'd tried. She's a
darling! A corker! A reg'lar charmer! Lovely eyes and darling lips and
that trim waist--never get sloppy, like some women.... No, no, no! She's
a real cultured lady. One of the brightest little women I've met these
many moons. Understands about Public Topics and--But, darn it, why
didn't I try? . . . Tanis!"

III

He was harassed and puzzled by it, but he found that he was turning
toward youth, as youth. The girl who especially disturbed him--though he
had never spoken to her--was the last manicure girl on the right in the
Pompeian Barber Shop. She was small, swift, black-haired, smiling. She
was nineteen, perhaps, or twenty. She wore thin salmon-colored blouses
which exhibited her shoulders and her black-ribboned camisoles.

He went to the Pompeian for his fortnightly hair-trim. As always, he
felt disloyal at deserting his neighbor, the Reeves Building Barber
Shop. Then, for the first time, he overthrew his sense of guilt.
"Doggone it, I don't have to go here if I don't want to! I don't own the
Reeves Building! These barbers got nothing on me! I'll doggone well get
my hair cut where I doggone well want to! Don't want to hear anything
more about it! I'm through standing by people--unless I want to. It
doesn't get you anywhere. I'm through!"

The Pompeian Barber Shop was in the basement of the Hotel Thornleigh,
largest and most dynamically modern hotel in Zenith. Curving marble
steps with a rail of polished brass led from the hotel-lobby down to the
barber shop. The interior was of black and white and crimson tiles,
with a sensational ceiling of burnished gold, and a fountain in which
a massive nymph forever emptied a scarlet cornucopia. Forty barbers
and nine manicure girls worked desperately, and at the door six colored
porters lurked to greet the customers, to care reverently for their hats
and collars, to lead them to a place of waiting where, on a carpet like
a tropic isle in the stretch of white stone floor, were a dozen leather
chairs and a table heaped with magazines.

Babbitt's porter was an obsequious gray-haired negro who did him an
honor highly esteemed in the land of Zenith--greeted him by name. Yet
Babbitt was unhappy. His bright particular manicure girl was engaged.
She was doing the nails of an overdressed man and giggling with him.
Babbitt hated him. He thought of waiting, but to stop the powerful
system of the Pompeian was inconceivable, and he was instantly wafted
into a chair.

About him was luxury, rich and delicate. One votary was having a
violet-ray facial treatment, the next an oil shampoo. Boys wheeled about
miraculous electrical massage-machines. The barbers snatched
steaming towels from a machine like a howitzer of polished nickel and
disdainfully flung them away after a second's use. On the vast marble
shelf facing the chairs were hundreds of tonics, amber and ruby and
emerald. It was flattering to Babbitt to have two personal slaves at
once--the barber and the bootblack. He would have been completely happy
if he could also have had the manicure girl. The barber snipped at his
hair and asked his opinion of the Havre de Grace races, the baseball
season, and Mayor Prout. The young negro bootblack hummed "The Camp
Meeting Blues" and polished in rhythm to his tune, drawing the shiny
shoe-rag so taut at each stroke that it snapped like a banjo string.
The barber was an excellent salesman. He made Babbitt feel rich and
important by his manner of inquiring, "What is your favorite tonic, sir?
Have you time to-day, sir, for a facial massage? Your scalp is a little
tight; shall I give you a scalp massage?"

Babbitt's best thrill was in the shampoo. The barber made his hair
creamy with thick soap, then (as Babbitt bent over the bowl, muffled in
towels) drenched it with hot water which prickled along his scalp, and
at last ran the water ice-cold. At the shock, the sudden burning cold on
his skull, Babbitt's heart thumped, his chest heaved, and his spine was
an electric wire. It was a sensation which broke the monotony of life.
He looked grandly about the shop as he sat up. The barber obsequiously
rubbed his wet hair and bound it in a towel as in a turban, so that
Babbitt resembled a plump pink calif on an ingenious and adjustable
throne. The barber begged (in the manner of one who was a good fellow
yet was overwhelmed by the splendors of the calif), "How about a little
Eldorado Oil Rub, sir? Very beneficial to the scalp, sir. Didn't I give
you one the last time?"

He hadn't, but Babbitt agreed, "Well, all right."

With quaking eagerness he saw that his manicure girl was free.

"I don't know, I guess I'll have a manicure after all," he droned, and
excitedly watched her coming, dark-haired, smiling, tender, little. The
manicuring would have to be finished at her table, and he would be able
to talk to her without the barber listening. He waited contentedly, not
trying to peep at her, while she filed his nails and the barber shaved
him and smeared on his burning cheeks all the interesting mixtures which
the pleasant minds of barbers have devised through the revolving ages.
When the barber was done and he sat opposite the girl at her table, he
admired the marble slab of it, admired the sunken set bowl with its tiny
silver taps, and admired himself for being able to frequent so costly a
place. When she withdrew his wet hand from the bowl, it was so sensitive
from the warm soapy water that he was abnormally aware of the clasp of
her firm little paw. He delighted in the pinkness and glossiness of her
nails. Her hands seemed to him more adorable than Mrs. Judique's thin
fingers, and more elegant. He had a certain ecstasy in the pain when she
gnawed at the cuticle of his nails with a sharp knife. He struggled not
to look at the outline of her young bosom and her shoulders, the more
apparent under a film of pink chiffon. He was conscious of her as an
exquisite thing, and when he tried to impress his personality on her he
spoke as awkwardly as a country boy at his first party:

"Well, kinda hot to be working to-day."

"Oh, yes, it is hot. You cut your own nails, last time, didn't you!"

"Ye-es, guess I must 've."

"You always ought to go to a manicure."

"Yes, maybe that's so. I--"

"There's nothing looks so nice as nails that are looked after good. I
always think that's the best way to spot a real gent. There was an auto
salesman in here yesterday that claimed you could always tell a fellow's
class by the car he drove, but I says to him, 'Don't be silly,' I says;
'the wisenheimers grab a look at a fellow's nails when they want to tell
if he's a tin-horn or a real gent!"'

"Yes, maybe there's something to that. Course, that is--with a pretty
kiddy like you, a man can't help coming to get his mitts done."

"Yeh, I may be a kid, but I'm a wise bird, and I know nice folks when
I see um--I can read character at a glance--and I'd never talk so frank
with a fellow if I couldn't see he was a nice fellow."

She smiled. Her eyes seemed to him as gentle as April pools. With great
seriousness he informed himself that "there were some roughnecks who
would think that just because a girl was a manicure girl and maybe not
awful well educated, she was no good, but as for him, he was a democrat,
and understood people," and he stood by the assertion that this was a
fine girl, a good girl--but not too uncomfortably good. He inquired in a
voice quick with sympathy:

"I suppose you have a lot of fellows who try to get fresh with you."

"Say, gee, do I! Say, listen, there's some of these cigar-store sports
that think because a girl's working in a barber shop, they can get away
with anything. The things they saaaaaay! But, believe me, I know how to
hop those birds! I just give um the north and south and ask um, 'Say,
who do you think you're talking to?' and they fade away like love's
young nightmare and oh, don't you want a box of nail-paste? It will keep
the nails as shiny as when first manicured, harmless to apply and lasts
for days."

"Sure, I'll try some. Say--Say, it's funny; I've been coming here ever
since the shop opened and--" With arch surprise. "--I don't believe I
know your name!"

"Don't you? My, that's funny! I don't know yours!"

"Now you quit kidding me! What's the nice little name?"

"Oh, it ain't so darn nice. I guess it's kind of kike. But my folks
ain't kikes. My papa's papa was a nobleman in Poland, and there was a
gentleman in here one day, he was kind of a count or something--"

"Kind of a no-account, I guess you mean!"

"Who's telling this, smarty? And he said he knew my papa's papa's folks
in Poland and they had a dandy big house. Right on a lake!" Doubtfully,
"Maybe you don't believe it?"

"Sure. No. Really. Sure I do. Why not? Don't think I'm kidding you,
honey, but every time I've noticed you I've said to myself, 'That kid
has Blue Blood in her veins!'"

"Did you, honest?"

"Honest I did. Well, well, come on--now we're friends--what's the
darling little name?"

"Ida Putiak. It ain't so much-a-much of a name. I always say to Ma, I
say, 'Ma, why didn't you name me Doloress or something with some class
to it?'"

"Well, now, I think it's a scrumptious name. Ida!"

"I bet I know your name!"

"Well, now, not necessarily. Of course--Oh, it isn't so specially well
known."

"Aren't you Mr. Sondheim that travels for the Krackajack Kitchen Kutlery
Ko.?"

"I am not! I'm Mr. Babbitt, the real-estate broker!"

"Oh, excuse me! Oh, of course. You mean here in Zenith."

"Yep." With the briskness of one whose feelings have been hurt.

"Oh, sure. I've read your ads. They're swell."

"Um, well--You might have read about my speeches."

"Course I have! I don't get much time to read but--I guess you think I'm
an awfully silly little nit!"

"I think you're a little darling!"

"Well--There's one nice thing about this job. It gives a girl a
chance to meet some awfully nice gentlemen and improve her mind with
conversation, and you get so you can read a guy's character at the first
glance."

"Look here, Ida; please don't think I'm getting fresh--" He was hotly
reflecting that it would be humiliating to be rejected by this child,
and dangerous to be accepted. If he took her to dinner, if he were seen
by censorious friends--But he went on ardently: "Don't think I'm getting
fresh if I suggest it would be nice for us to go out and have a little
dinner together some evening."

"I don't know as I ought to but--My gentleman-friend's always wanting to
take me out. But maybe I could to-night."

IV

There was no reason, he assured himself, why he shouldn't have a
quiet dinner with a poor girl who would benefit by association with an
educated and mature person like himself. But, lest some one see them and
not understand, he would take her to Biddlemeier's Inn, on the outskirts
of the city. They would have a pleasant drive, this hot lonely evening,
and he might hold her hand--no, he wouldn't even do that. Ida was
complaisant; her bare shoulders showed it only too clearly; but he'd be
hanged if he'd make love to her merely because she expected it.

Then his car broke down; something had happened to the ignition. And he
HAD to have the car this evening! Furiously he tested the spark-plugs,
stared at the commutator. His angriest glower did not seem to stir the
sulky car, and in disgrace it was hauled off to a garage. With a renewed
thrill he thought of a taxicab. There was something at once wealthy and
interestingly wicked about a taxicab.

But when he met her, on a corner two blocks from the Hotel Thornleigh,
she said, "A taxi? Why, I thought you owned a car!"

"I do. Of course I do! But it's out of commission to-night."

"Oh," she remarked, as one who had heard that tale before.

All the way out to Biddlemeier's Inn he tried to talk as an old friend,
but he could not pierce the wall of her words. With interminable
indignation she narrated her retorts to "that fresh head-barber" and the
drastic things she would do to him if he persisted in saying that she
was "better at gassing than at hoof-paring."

At Biddlemeier's Inn they were unable to get anything to drink. The
head-waiter refused to understand who George F. Babbitt was. They
sat steaming before a vast mixed grill, and made conversation about
baseball. When he tried to hold Ida's hand she said with bright
friendliness, "Careful! That fresh waiter is rubbering." But they came
out into a treacherous summer night, the air lazy and a little moon
above transfigured maples.

"Let's drive some other place, where we can get a drink and dance!" he
demanded.

"Sure, some other night. But I promised Ma I'd be home early to-night."

"Rats! It's too nice to go home."

"I'd just love to, but Ma would give me fits."

He was trembling. She was everything that was young and exquisite. He
put his arm about her. She snuggled against his shoulder, unafraid,
and he was triumphant. Then she ran down the steps of the Inn, singing,
"Come on, Georgie, we'll have a nice drive and get cool."

It was a night of lovers. All along the highway into Zenith, under the
low and gentle moon, motors were parked and dim figures were clasped in
revery. He held out hungry hands to Ida, and when she patted them he was
grateful. There was no sense of struggle and transition; he kissed her
and simply she responded to his kiss, they two behind the stolid back of
the chauffeur.

Her hat fell off, and she broke from his embrace to reach for it.

"Oh, let it be!" he implored.

"Huh? My hat? Not a chance!"

He waited till she had pinned it on, then his arm sank about her. She
drew away from it, and said with maternal soothing, "Now, don't be a
silly boy! Mustn't make Ittle Mama scold! Just sit back, dearie, and see
what a swell night it is. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll kiss you when
we say nighty-night. Now give me a cigarette."

He was solicitous about lighting her cigarette and inquiring as to
her comfort. Then he sat as far from her as possible. He was cold with
failure. No one could have told Babbitt that he was a fool with more
vigor, precision, and intelligence than he himself displayed. He
reflected that from the standpoint of the Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew
he was a wicked man, and from the standpoint of Miss Ida Putiak, an old
bore who had to be endured as the penalty attached to eating a large
dinner.

"Dearie, you aren't going to go and get peevish, are you?"

She spoke pertly. He wanted to spank her. He brooded, "I don't have to
take anything off this gutter-pup! Darn immigrant! Well, let's get it
over as quick as we can, and sneak home and kick ourselves for the rest
of the night."

He snorted, "Huh? Me peevish? Why, you baby, why should I be peevish?
Now, listen, Ida; listen to Uncle George. I want to put you wise about
this scrapping with your head-barber all the time. I've had a lot
of experience with employees, and let me tell you it doesn't pay to
antagonize--"

At the drab wooden house in which she lived he said good-night briefly
and amiably, but as the taxicab drove off he was praying "Oh, my God!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Babbitt visits Paul at the penitentiary and sadly realizes that his friend's spirit is dead, even though there is life in his body. Babbitt also perceives that his own faith in the goodness of the world is dead. He unashamedly admits to himself that he is glad Myra is away. One day, a very chic and sophisticated woman of Babbitt's age comes into his office to rent an apartment. Her name is Tanis Judique. Babbitt is charmed by her and decides to show her the rooms himself. He spends several hours with Tanis, behaving in his most suave manner. The two have many things in common, and they part on friendly terms. Afterward, Babbitt regrets that he did not develop their relationship further. One of the manicurists in Babbitt's barber shop is a pretty young girl named Ida Putiak. For the first time, Babbitt notices that she is an attractive woman, and he makes a date with her. Later that week, he and Ida go to dinner together, but the girl is evidently not too stimulated by his company and, afterwards, she fights off his amorous advances. On his way home, Babbitt realizes that he is old enough to be Ida's father and that the poverty-stricken girl probably agreed to go out with him only in order to get a good meal. He is deeply ashamed of his foolish behavior.


prompt:
Chapter: I

HE awoke to stretch cheerfully as he listened to the sparrows, then to
remember that everything was wrong; that he was determined to go astray,
and not in the least enjoying the process. Why, he wondered, should he
be in rebellion? What was it all about? "Why not be sensible; stop all
this idiotic running around, and enjoy himself with his family,
his business, the fellows at the club?" What was he getting out of
rebellion? Misery and shame--the shame of being treated as an offensive
small boy by a ragamuffin like Ida Putiak! And yet--Always he came back
to "And yet." Whatever the misery, he could not regain contentment with
a world which, once doubted, became absurd.

Only, he assured himself, he was "through with this chasing after
girls."

By noontime he was not so sure even of that. If in Miss McGoun, Louetta
Swanson, and Ida he had failed to find the lady kind and lovely, it did
not prove that she did not exist. He was hunted by the ancient thought
that somewhere must exist the not impossible she who would understand
him, value him, and make him happy.

II

Mrs. Babbitt returned in August.

On her previous absences he had missed her reassuring buzz and of her
arrival he had made a f�te. Now, though he dared not hurt her by letting
a hint of it appear in his letters, he was sorry that she was coming
before he had found himself, and he was embarrassed by the need of
meeting her and looking joyful.

He loitered down to the station; he studied the summer-resort posters,
lest he have to speak to acquaintances and expose his uneasiness. But
he was well trained. When the train clanked in he was out on the cement
platform, peering into the chair-cars, and as he saw her in the line of
passengers moving toward the vestibule he waved his hat. At the door he
embraced her, and announced, "Well, well, well, well, by golly, you look
fine, you look fine." Then he was aware of Tinka. Here was something,
this child with her absurd little nose and lively eyes, that loved him,
believed him great, and as he clasped her, lifted and held her till she
squealed, he was for the moment come back to his old steady self.

Tinka sat beside him in the car, with one hand on the steering-wheel,
pretending to help him drive, and he shouted back to his wife, "I'll bet
the kid will be the best chuffer in the family! She holds the wheel like
an old professional!"

All the while he was dreading the moment when he would be alone with his
wife and she would patiently expect him to be ardent.

III

There was about the house an unofficial theory that he was to take
his vacation alone, to spend a week or ten days in Catawba, but he was
nagged by the memory that a year ago he had been with Paul in Maine. He
saw himself returning; finding peace there, and the presence of Paul,
in a life primitive and heroic. Like a shock came the thought that he
actually could go. Only, he couldn't, really; he couldn't leave his
business, and "Myra would think it sort of funny, his going way off
there alone. Course he'd decided to do whatever he darned pleased, from
now on, but still--to go way off to Maine!"

He went, after lengthy meditations.

With his wife, since it was inconceivable to explain that he was going
to seek Paul's spirit in the wilderness, he frugally employed the lie
prepared over a year ago and scarcely used at all. He said that he had
to see a man in New York on business. He could not have explained even
to himself why he drew from the bank several hundred dollars more than
he needed, nor why he kissed Tinka so tenderly, and cried, "God bless
you, baby!" From the train he waved to her till she was but a scarlet
spot beside the brown bulkier presence of Mrs. Babbitt, at the end of a
steel and cement aisle ending in vast barred gates. With melancholy he
looked back at the last suburb of Zenith.

All the way north he pictured the Maine guides: simple and strong and
daring, jolly as they played stud-poker in their unceiled shack, wise
in woodcraft as they tramped the forest and shot the rapids. He
particularly remembered Joe Paradise, half Yankee, half Indian. If he
could but take up a backwoods claim with a man like Joe, work hard with
his hands, be free and noisy in a flannel shirt, and never come back to
this dull decency!

Or, like a trapper in a Northern Canada movie, plunge through the
forest, make camp in the Rockies, a grim and wordless caveman! Why not?
He COULD do it! There'd be enough money at home for the family to live
on till Verona was married and Ted self-supporting. Old Henry T. would
look out for them. Honestly! Why NOT? Really LIVE--

He longed for it, admitted that he longed for it, then almost believed
that he was going to do it. Whenever common sense snorted, "Nonsense!
Folks don't run away from decent families and partners; just simply
don't do it, that's all!" then Babbitt answered pleadingly, "Well, it
wouldn't take any more nerve than for Paul to go to jail and--Lord,
how I'd' like to do it! Moccasins--six-gun--frontier town--gamblers--sleep
under the stars--be a regular man, with he-men like Joe Paradise--gosh!"

So he came to Maine, again stood on the wharf before the camp-hotel,
again spat heroically into the delicate and shivering water, while the
pines rustled, the mountains glowed, and a trout leaped and fell in a
sliding circle. He hurried to the guides' shack as to his real home,
his real friends, long missed. They would be glad to see him. They would
stand up and shout? "Why, here's Mr. Babbitt! He ain't one of these
ordinary sports! He's a real guy!"

In their boarded and rather littered cabin the guides sat about the
greasy table playing stud-poker with greasy cards: half a dozen wrinkled
men in old trousers and easy old felt hats. They glanced up and nodded.
Joe Paradise, the swart aging man with the big mustache, grunted, "How
do. Back again?"

Silence, except for the clatter of chips.

Babbitt stood beside them, very lonely. He hinted, after a period of
highly concentrated playing, "Guess I might take a hand, Joe."

"Sure. Sit in. How many chips you want? Let's see; you were here with
your wife, last year, wa'n't you?" said Joe Paradise.

That was all of Babbitt's welcome to the old home.

He played for half an hour before he spoke again. His head was reeking
with the smoke of pipes and cheap cigars, and he was weary of pairs and
four-flushes, resentful of the way in which they ignored him. He flung
at Joe:

"Working now?"

"Nope."

"Like to guide me for a few days?"

"Well, jus' soon. I ain't engaged till next week."

Only thus did Joe recognize the friendship Babbitt was offering him.
Babbitt paid up his losses and left the shack rather childishly. Joe
raised his head from the coils of smoke like a seal rising from surf,
grunted, "I'll come 'round t'morrow," and dived down to his three aces.

Neither in his voiceless cabin, fragrant with planks of new-cut pine,
nor along the lake, nor in the sunset clouds which presently eddied
behind the lavender-misted mountains, could Babbitt find the spirit of
Paul as a reassuring presence. He was so lonely that after supper
he stopped to talk with an ancient old lady, a gasping and steadily
discoursing old lady, by the stove in the hotel-office. He told her of
Ted's presumable future triumphs in the State University and of Tinka's
remarkable vocabulary till he was homesick for the home he had left
forever.

Through the darkness, through that Northern pine-walled silence, he
blundered down to the lake-front and found a canoe. There were no
paddles in it but with a board, sitting awkwardly amidships and poking
at the water rather than paddling, he made his way far out on the lake.
The lights of the hotel and the cottages became yellow dots, a cluster
of glow-worms at the base of Sachem Mountain. Larger and ever more
imperturbable was the mountain in the star-filtered darkness, and the
lake a limitless pavement of black marble. He was dwarfed and dumb and
a little awed, but that insignificance freed him from the pomposities of
being Mr. George F. Babbitt of Zenith; saddened and freed his heart.
Now he was conscious of the presence of Paul, fancied him (rescued
from prison, from Zilla and the brisk exactitudes of the tar-roofing
business) playing his violin at the end of the canoe. He vowed, "I will
go on! I'll never go back! Now that Paul's out of it, I don't want to
see any of those damn people again! I was a fool to get sore because Joe
Paradise didn't jump up and hug me. He's one of these woodsmen; too wise
to go yelping and talking your arm off like a cityman. But get him back
in the mountains, out on the trail--! That's real living!"

IV

Joe reported at Babbitt's cabin at nine the next morning. Babbitt
greeted him as a fellow caveman:

"Well, Joe, how d' you feel about hitting the trail, and getting away
from these darn soft summerites and these women and all?"

"All right, Mr. Babbitt."

"What do you say we go over to Box Car Pond--they tell me the shack
there isn't being used--and camp out?"

"Well, all right, Mr. Babbitt, but it's nearer to Skowtuit Pond, and you
can get just about as good fishing there."

"No, I want to get into the real wilds."

"Well, all right."

"We'll put the old packs on our backs and get into the woods and really
hike."

"I think maybe it would be easier to go by water, through Lake Chogue.
We can go all the way by motor boat--flat-bottom boat with an Evinrude."

"No, sir! Bust up the quiet with a chugging motor? Not on your life! You
just throw a pair of socks in the old pack, and tell 'em what you want
for eats. I'll be ready soon 's you are."

"Most of the sports go by boat, Mr. Babbitt. It's a long walk.

"Look here, Joe: are you objecting to walking?"

"Oh, no, I guess I can do it. But I haven't tramped that far for sixteen
years. Most of the sports go by boat. But I can do it if you say so--I
guess." Joe walked away in sadness.

Babbitt had recovered from his touchy wrath before Joe returned. He
pictured him as warming up and telling the most entertaining stories.
But Joe had not yet warmed up when they took the trail. He persistently
kept behind Babbitt, and however much his shoulders ached from the pack,
however sorely he panted, Babbitt could hear his guide panting equally.
But the trail was satisfying: a path brown with pine-needles and rough
with roots, among the balsams, the ferns, the sudden groves of white
birch. He became credulous again, and rejoiced in sweating. When he
stopped to rest he chuckled, "Guess we're hitting it up pretty good for
a couple o' old birds, eh?"

"Uh-huh," admitted Joe.

"This is a mighty pretty place. Look, you can see the lake down through
the trees. I tell you, Joe, you don't appreciate how lucky you are to
live in woods like this, instead of a city with trolleys grinding and
typewriters clacking and people bothering the life out of you all the
time! I wish I knew the woods like you do. Say, what's the name of that
little red flower?"

Rubbing his back, Joe regarded the flower resentfully "Well, some folks
call it one thing and some calls it another I always just call it Pink
Flower."

Babbitt blessedly ceased thinking as tramping turned into blind
plodding. He was submerged in weariness. His plump legs seemed to go
on by themselves, without guidance, and he mechanically wiped away the
sweat which stung his eyes. He was too tired to be consciously glad as,
after a sun-scourged mile of corduroy tote-road through a swamp where
flies hovered over a hot waste of brush, they reached the cool shore of
Box Car Pond. When he lifted the pack from his back he staggered from
the change in balance, and for a moment could not stand erect. He lay
beneath an ample-bosomed maple tree near the guest-shack, and joyously
felt sleep running through his veins.

He awoke toward dusk, to find Joe efficiently cooking bacon and eggs and
flapjacks for supper, and his admiration of the woodsman returned. He
sat on a stump and felt virile.

"Joe, what would you do if you had a lot of money? Would you stick
to guiding, or would you take a claim 'way back in the woods and be
independent of people?"

For the first time Joe brightened. He chewed his cud a second, and
bubbled, "I've often thought of that! If I had the money, I'd go down to
Tinker's Falls and open a swell shoe store."

After supper Joe proposed a game of stud-poker but Babbitt refused with
brevity, and Joe contentedly went to bed at eight. Babbitt sat on the
stump, facing the dark pond, slapping mosquitos. Save the snoring guide,
there was no other human being within ten miles. He was lonelier than he
had ever been in his life. Then he was in Zenith.

He was worrying as to whether Miss McGoun wasn't paying too much for
carbon paper. He was at once resenting and missing the persistent
teasing at the Roughnecks' Table. He was wondering what Zilla Riesling
was doing now. He was wondering whether, after the summer's maturity
of being a garageman, Ted would "get busy" in the university. He was
thinking of his wife. "If she would only--if she wouldn't be so darn
satisfied with just settling down--No! I won't! I won't go back! I'll
be fifty in three years. Sixty in thirteen years. I'm going to have some
fun before it's too late. I don't care! I will!"

He thought of Ida Putiak, of Louetta Swanson, of that nice widow--what
was her name?--Tanis Judique?--the one for whom he'd found the flat. He
was enmeshed in imaginary conversations. Then:

"Gee, I can't seem to get away from thinking about folks!"

Thus it came to him merely to run away was folly, because he could never
run away from himself.

That moment he started for Zenith. In his journey there was no
appearance of flight, but he was fleeing, and four days afterward he was
on the Zenith train. He knew that he was slinking back not because it
was what he longed to do but because it was all he could do. He scanned
again his discovery that he could never run away from Zenith and family
and office, because in his own brain he bore the office and the family
and every street and disquiet and illusion of Zenith.

"But I'm going to--oh, I'm going to start something!" he vowed, and he
tried to make it valiant.

I

As he walked through the train, looking for familiar faces, he saw only
one person whom he knew, and that was Seneca Doane, the lawyer who,
after the blessings of being in Babbitt's own class at college and
of becoming a corporation-counsel, had turned crank, had headed
farmer-labor tickets and fraternized with admitted socialists. Though he
was in rebellion, naturally Babbitt did not care to be seen talking
with such a fanatic, but in all the Pullmans he could find no other
acquaintance, and reluctantly he halted. Seneca Doane was a slight,
thin-haired man, rather like Chum Frink except that he hadn't Frink's
grin. He was reading a book called "The Way of All Flesh." It looked
religious to Babbitt, and he wondered if Doane could possibly have been
converted and turned decent and patriotic.

"Why, hello, Doane," he said.

Doane looked up. His voice was curiously kind. "Oh! How do, Babbitt."

"Been away, eh?"

"Yes, I've been in Washington."

"Washington, eh? How's the old Government making out?"

"It's--Won't you sit down?"

"Thanks. Don't care if I do. Well, well! Been quite a while since I've
had a good chance to talk to you, Doane. I was, uh--Sorry you didn't
turn up at the last class-dinner."

"Oh--thanks."

"How's the unions coming? Going to run for mayor again?" Doane seemed
restless. He was fingering the pages of his book. He said "I might" as
though it didn't mean anything in particular, and he smiled.

Babbitt liked that smile, and hunted for conversation: "Saw a bang-up
cabaret in New York: the 'Good-Morning Cutie' bunch at the Hotel
Minton."

"Yes, they're pretty girls. I danced there one evening."

"Oh. Like dancing?"

"Naturally. I like dancing and pretty women and good food better than
anything else in the world. Most men do."

"But gosh, Doane, I thought you fellows wanted to take all the good eats
and everything away from us."

"No. Not at all. What I'd like to see is the meetings of the
Garment Workers held at the Ritz, with a dance afterward. Isn't that
reasonable?"

"Yuh, might be good idea, all right. Well--Shame I haven't seen more
of you, recent years. Oh, say, hope you haven't held it against me,
my bucking you as mayor, going on the stump for Prout. You see, I'm an
organization Republican, and I kind of felt--"

"There's no reason why you shouldn't fight me. I have no doubt you're
good for the Organization. I remember--in college you were an unusually
liberal, sensitive chap. I can still recall your saying to me that you
were going to be a lawyer, and take the cases of the poor for nothing,
and fight the rich. And I remember I said I was going to be one of
the rich myself, and buy paintings and live at Newport. I'm sure you
inspired us all."

"Well.... Well.... I've always aimed to be liberal." Babbitt was
enormously shy and proud and self-conscious; he tried to look like the
boy he had been a quarter-century ago, and he shone upon his old friend
Seneca Doane as he rumbled, "Trouble with a lot of these fellows, even
the live wires and some of 'em that think they're forward-looking, is
they aren't broad-minded and liberal. Now, I always believe in giving
the other fellow a chance, and listening to his ideas."

"That's fine."

"Tell you how I figure it: A little opposition is good for all of us,
so a fellow, especially if he's a business man and engaged in doing the
work of the world, ought to be liberal."

"Yes--"

"I always say a fellow ought to have Vision and Ideals. I guess some of
the fellows in my business think I'm pretty visionary, but I just let
'em think what they want to and go right on--same as you do.... By
golly, this is nice to have a chance to sit and visit and kind of, you
might say, brush up on our ideals."

"But of course we visionaries do rather get beaten. Doesn't it bother
you?"

"Not a bit! Nobody can dictate to me what I think!"

"You're the man I want to help me. I want you to talk to some of
the business men and try to make them a little more liberal in their
attitude toward poor Beecher Ingram."

"Ingram? But, why, he's this nut preacher that got kicked out of
the Congregationalist Church, isn't he, and preaches free love and
sedition?"

This, Doane explained, was indeed the general conception of Beecher
Ingram, but he himself saw Beecher Ingram as a priest of the brotherhood
of man, of which Babbitt was notoriously an upholder. So would Babbitt
keep his acquaintances from hounding Ingram and his forlorn little
church?

"You bet! I'll call down any of the boys I hear getting funny about
Ingram," Babbitt said affectionately to his dear friend Doane.

Doane warmed up and became reminiscent. He spoke of student days in
Germany, of lobbying for single tax in Washington, of international
labor conferences. He mentioned his friends, Lord Wycombe, Colonel
Wedgwood, Professor Piccoli. Babbitt had always supposed that Doane
associated only with the I. W. W., but now he nodded gravely, as one
who knew Lord Wycombes by the score, and he got in two references to Sir
Gerald Doak. He felt daring and idealistic and cosmopolitan.

Suddenly, in his new spiritual grandeur, he was sorry for Zilla
Riesling, and understood her as these ordinary fellows at the Boosters'
Club never could.

II

Five hours after he had arrived in Zenith and told his wife how hot it
was in New York, he went to call on Zilla. He was buzzing with ideas and
forgiveness. He'd get Paul released; he'd do things, vague but highly
benevolent things, for Zilla; he'd be as generous as his friend Seneca
Doane.

He had not seen Zilla since Paul had shot her, and he still pictured her
as buxom, high-colored, lively, and a little blowsy. As he drove up
to her boarding-house, in a depressing back street below the wholesale
district, he stopped in discomfort. At an upper window, leaning on her
elbow, was a woman with the features of Zilla, but she was bloodless
and aged, like a yellowed wad of old paper crumpled into wrinkles. Where
Zilla had bounced and jiggled, this woman was dreadfully still.

He waited half an hour before she came into the boarding-house parlor.
Fifty times he opened the book of photographs of the Chicago World's
Fair of 1893, fifty times he looked at the picture of the Court of
Honor.

He was startled to find Zilla in the room. She wore a black streaky gown
which she had tried to brighten with a girdle of crimson ribbon. The
ribbon had been torn and patiently mended. He noted this carefully,
because he did not wish to look at her shoulders. One shoulder was lower
than the other; one arm she carried in contorted fashion, as though it
were paralyzed; and behind a high collar of cheap lace there was a gouge
in the anemic neck which had once been shining and softly plump.

"Yes?" she said.

"Well, well, old Zilla! By golly, it's good to see you again!"

"He can send his messages through a lawyer."

"Why, rats, Zilla, I didn't come just because of him. Came as an old
friend."

"You waited long enough!"

"Well, you know how it is. Figured you wouldn't want to see a friend of
his for quite some time and--Sit down, honey! Let's be sensible. We've
all of us done a bunch of things that we hadn't ought to, but maybe we
can sort of start over again. Honest, Zilla, I'd like to do something to
make you both happy. Know what I thought to-day? Mind you, Paul doesn't
know a thing about this--doesn't know I was going to come see you. I got
to thinking: Zilla's a fine? big-hearted woman, and she'll understand
that, uh, Paul's had his lesson now. Why wouldn't it be a fine idea if
you asked the governor to pardon him? Believe he would, if it came from
you. No! Wait! Just think how good you'd feel if you were generous."

"Yes, I wish to be generous." She was sitting primly, speaking icily.
"For that reason I wish to keep him in prison, as an example to
evil-doers. I've gotten religion, George, since the terrible thing that
man did to me. Sometimes I used to be unkind, and I wished for worldly
pleasures, for dancing and the theater. But when I was in the hospital
the pastor of the Pentecostal Communion Faith used to come to see me,
and he showed me, right from the prophecies written in the Word of God,
that the Day of Judgment is coming and all the members of the older
churches are going straight to eternal damnation, because they only do
lip-service and swallow the world, the flesh, and the devil--"

For fifteen wild minutes she talked, pouring out admonitions to flee the
wrath to come, and her face flushed, her dead voice recaptured something
of the shrill energy of the old Zilla. She wound up with a furious:

"It's the blessing of God himself that Paul should be in prison now, and
torn and humbled by punishment, so that he may yet save his soul, and so
other wicked men, these horrible chasers after women and lust, may have
an example."

Babbitt had itched and twisted. As in church he dared not move during
the sermon so now he felt that he must seem attentive, though her
screeching denunciations flew past him like carrion birds.

He sought to be calm and brotherly:

"Yes, I know, Zilla. But gosh, it certainly is the essence of religion
to be charitable, isn't it? Let me tell you how I figure it: What we
need in the world is liberalism, liberality, if we're going to get
anywhere. I've always believed in being broad-minded and liberal--"

"You? Liberal?" It was very much the old Zilla. "Why, George Babbitt,
you're about as broad-minded and liberal as a razor-blade!"

"Oh, I am, am I! Well, just let me tell you, just--let me--tell--you,
I'm as by golly liberal as you are religious, anyway! YOU RELIGIOUS!"

"I am so! Our pastor says I sustain him in the faith!"

"I'll bet you do! With Paul's money! But just to show you how liberal
I am, I'm going to send a check for ten bucks to this Beecher Ingram,
because a lot of fellows are saying the poor cuss preaches sedition and
free love, and they're trying to run him out of town."

"And they're right! They ought to run him out of town! Why, he
preaches--if you can call it preaching--in a theater, in the House of
Satan! You don't know what it is to find God, to find peace, to behold
the snares that the devil spreads out for our feet. Oh, I'm so glad to
see the mysterious purposes of God in having Paul harm me and stop
my wickedness--and Paul's getting his, good and plenty, for the cruel
things he did to me, and I hope he DIES in prison!"

Babbitt was up, hat in hand, growling, "Well, if that's what you call
being at peace, for heaven's sake just warn me before you go to war,
will you?"

III

Vast is the power of cities to reclaim the wanderer. More than mountains
or the shore-devouring sea, a city retains its character, imperturbable,
cynical, holding behind apparent changes its essential purpose. Though
Babbitt had deserted his family and dwelt with Joe Paradise in the
wilderness, though he had become a liberal, though he had been quite
sure, on the night before he reached Zenith, that neither he nor the
city would be the same again, ten days after his return he could not
believe that he had ever been away. Nor was it at all evident to his
acquaintances that there was a new George F. Babbitt, save that he was
more irritable under the incessant chaffing at the Athletic Club, and
once, when Vergil Gunch observed that Seneca Doane ought to be hanged,
Babbitt snorted, "Oh, rats, he's not so bad."

At home he grunted "Eh?" across the newspaper to his commentatory wife,
and was delighted by Tinka's new red tam o'shanter, and announced, "No
class to that corrugated iron garage. Have to build me a nice frame
one."

Verona and Kenneth Escott appeared really to be engaged. In
his newspaper Escott had conducted a pure-food crusade against
commission-houses. As a result he had been given an excellent job in a
commission-house, and he was making a salary on which he could marry,
and denouncing irresponsible reporters who wrote stories criticizing
commission-houses without knowing what they were talking about.

This September Ted had entered the State University as a freshman in the
College of Arts and Sciences. The university was at Mohalis only fifteen
miles from Zenith, and Ted often came down for the week-end. Babbitt was
worried. Ted was "going in for" everything but books. He had tried to
"make" the football team as a light half-back, he was looking forward
to the basket-ball season, he was on the committee for the Freshman
Hop, and (as a Zenithite, an aristocrat among the yokels) he was being
"rushed" by two fraternities. But of his studies Babbitt could learn
nothing save a mumbled, "Oh, gosh, these old stiffs of teachers just
give you a lot of junk about literature and economics."

One week-end Ted proposed, "Say, Dad, why can't I transfer over from the
College to the School of Engineering and take mechanical engineering?
You always holler that I never study, but honest, I would study there."

"No, the Engineering School hasn't got the standing the College has,"
fretted Babbitt.

"I'd like to know how it hasn't! The Engineers can play on any of the
teams!"

There was much explanation of the "dollars-and-cents value of being
known as a college man when you go into the law," and a truly oratorical
account of the lawyer's life. Before he was through with it, Babbitt had
Ted a United States Senator.

Among the great lawyers whom he mentioned was Seneca Doane.

"But, gee whiz," Ted marveled, "I thought you always said this Doane was
a reg'lar nut!"

"That's no way to speak of a great man! Doane's always been a good
friend of mine--fact I helped him in college--I started him out and you
might say inspired him. Just because he's sympathetic with the aims of
Labor, a lot of chumps that lack liberality and broad-mindedness think
he's a crank, but let me tell you there's mighty few of 'em that rake
in the fees he does, and he's a friend of some of the strongest; most
conservative men in the world--like Lord Wycombe, this, uh, this big
English nobleman that's so well known. And you now, which would you
rather do: be in with a lot of greasy mechanics and laboring-men, or
chum up to a real fellow like Lord Wycombe, and get invited to his house
for parties?"

"Well--gosh," sighed Ted.

The next week-end he came in joyously with, "Say, Dad, why couldn't I
take mining engineering instead of the academic course? You talk about
standing--maybe there isn't much in mechanical engineering, but the
Miners, gee, they got seven out of eleven in the new elections to Nu Tau
Tau!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: In the morning, Babbitt awakens cheerfully. He reconsiders his behavior of the past few weeks and debates whether or not to continue his "rebellion." He resolves to go on seeking, but promises himself that he will discontinue his futile chasing after girls. In August, Myra comes back to Zenith, but Babbitt has not missed her. He dreads being alone with her, but he tries his best to seem enthusiastic about her return. As a result, Babbitt decides to spend his vacation alone in the Maine woods where he and Paul had such a peaceful time the year before. He hopes to be able to rejuvenate his spirit there. He tells his wife that he is going to New York on a business trip. At Lake Sunasquam, he seeks out the company of the Indian guides, hoping to discover through them the freedom and contentment of a virile, outdoor life. He is disappointed to learn, however, that they are crass and materialistic men -- just like those whom he left behind in Zenith. Even worse, the woods are not the same without Paul. One night, Babbitt begins to understand that he can never escape Zenith; the Zenith way of life is deeply imprinted on his mind and soul. He still does not comprehend what he is seeking, but he knows that there is only one place where he can really find it. A day or so later, he boards the train for home. On the train to Zenith, Babbitt encounters Seneca Doane, with whom he had been friendly in college. They speak together for the rest of the trip, and Babbitt is surprised to discover that Doane is not the revolutionary monster that he has been portrayed to be by the conservative businessmen of Zenith. Babbitt agrees with some of Doane's beliefs and begins to feel like a fledgling idealist. A few hours after his arrival in Zenith, Babbitt calls on Zilla Riesling. She now lives in a cheap boarding house in a poor neighborhood. He is surprised to see how her physical appearance has changed and is shocked to learn that she has become intolerantly religious. She has no mercy for Paul and refuses to cooperate in an effort to get him a pardon. At the Athletic Club, Babbitt defends Seneca Doane when the attorney is bad-mouthed by the members. Otherwise, Babbitt's life continues in its usual fashion.


prompt:
Chapter: I

THE strike which turned Zenith into two belligerent camps; white and
red, began late in September with a walk-out of telephone girls and
linemen, in protest against a reduction of wages. The newly formed union
of dairy-products workers went out, partly in sympathy and partly
in demand for a forty-four hour week. They were followed by the
truck-drivers' union. Industry was tied up, and the whole city was
nervous with talk of a trolley strike, a printers' strike, a general
strike. Furious citizens, trying to get telephone calls through
strike-breaking girls, danced helplessly. Every truck that made its way
from the factories to the freight-stations was guarded by a policeman,
trying to look stoical beside the scab driver. A line of fifty
trucks from the Zenith Steel and Machinery Company was attacked by
strikers-rushing out from the sidewalk, pulling drivers from the seats,
smashing carburetors and commutators, while telephone girls cheered from
the walk, and small boys heaved bricks.

The National Guard was ordered out. Colonel Nixon, who in private life
was Mr. Caleb Nixon, secretary of the Pullmore Tractor Company, put on
a long khaki coat and stalked through crowds, a .44 automatic in hand.
Even Babbitt's friend, Clarence Drum the shoe merchant--a round and
merry man who told stories at the Athletic Club, and who strangely
resembled a Victorian pug-dog--was to be seen as a waddling but
ferocious captain, with his belt tight about his comfortable little
belly, and his round little mouth petulant as he piped to chattering
groups on corners. "Move on there now! I can't have any of this
loitering!"

Every newspaper in the city, save one, was against the strikers. When
mobs raided the news-stands, at each was stationed a militiaman, a
young, embarrassed citizen-soldier with eye-glasses, bookkeeper or
grocery-clerk in private life, trying to look dangerous while small boys
yelped, "Get onto de tin soldier!" and striking truck-drivers inquired
tenderly, "Say, Joe, when I was fighting in France, was you in camp
in the States or was you doing Swede exercises in the Y. M. C. A.? Be
careful of that bayonet, now, or you'll cut yourself!"

There was no one in Zenith who talked of anything but the strike, and
no one who did not take sides. You were either a courageous friend of
Labor, or you were a fearless supporter of the Rights of Property; and
in either case you were belligerent, and ready to disown any friend who
did not hate the enemy.

A condensed-milk plant was set afire--each side charged it to the
other--and the city was hysterical.

And Babbitt chose this time to be publicly liberal.

He belonged to the sound, sane, right-thinking wing, and at first he
agreed that the Crooked Agitators ought to be shot. He was sorry when
his friend, Seneca Doane, defended arrested strikers, and he thought of
going to Doane and explaining about these agitators, but when he read a
broadside alleging that even on their former wages the telephone girls
had been hungry, he was troubled. "All lies and fake figures," he said,
but in a doubtful croak.

For the Sunday after, the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church announced a
sermon by Dr. John Jennison Drew on "How the Saviour Would End Strikes."
Babbitt had been negligent about church-going lately, but he went to
the service, hopeful that Dr. Drew really did have the information as
to what the divine powers thought about strikes. Beside Babbitt in the
large, curving, glossy, velvet-upholstered pew was Chum Frink.

Frink whispered, "Hope the doc gives the strikers hell! Ordinarily,
I don't believe in a preacher butting into political matters--let him
stick to straight religion and save souls, and not stir up a lot of
discussion--but at a time like this, I do think he ought to stand right
up and bawl out those plug-uglies to a fare-you-well!"

"Yes--well--" said Babbitt.

The Rev. Dr. Drew, his rustic bang flopping with the intensity of his
poetic and sociologic ardor, trumpeted:

"During the untoward series of industrial dislocations which have--let
us be courageous and admit it boldly--throttled the business life of
our fair city these past days, there has been a great deal of loose talk
about scientific prevention of scientific--SCIENTIFIC! Now, let me tell
you that the most unscientific thing in the world is science! Take the
attacks on the established fundamentals of the Christian creed which
were so popular with the 'scientists' a generation ago. Oh, yes, they
were mighty fellows, and great poo-bahs of criticism! They were going to
destroy the church; they were going to prove the world was created and
has been brought to its extraordinary level of morality and civilization
by blind chance. Yet the church stands just as firmly to-day as ever,
and the only answer a Christian pastor needs make to the long-haired
opponents of his simple faith is just a pitying smile!

"And now these same 'scientists' want to replace the natural condition
of free competition by crazy systems which, no matter by what
high-sounding names they are called, are nothing but a despotic
paternalism. Naturally, I'm not criticizing labor courts, injunctions
against men proven to be striking unjustly, or those excellent unions in
which the men and the boss get together. But I certainly am criticizing
the systems in which the free and fluid motivation of independent labor
is to be replaced by cooked-up wage-scales and minimum salaries and
government commissions and labor federations and all that poppycock.

"What is not generally understood is that this whole industrial matter
isn't a question of economics. It's essentially and only a matter
of Love, and of the practical application of the Christian religion!
Imagine a factory--instead of committees of workmen alienating the boss,
the boss goes among them smiling, and they smile back, the elder brother
and the younger. Brothers, that's what they must be, loving brothers,
and then strikes would be as inconceivable as hatred in the home!"

It was at this point that Babbitt muttered, "Oh, rot!"

"Huh?" said Chum Frink.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about. It's just as clear as mud. It
doesn't mean a darn thing."

"Maybe, but--"

Frink looked at him doubtfully, through all the service kept glancing at
him doubtfully, till Babbitt was nervous.

II

The strikers had announced a parade for Tuesday morning, but Colonel
Nixon had forbidden it, the newspapers said. When Babbitt drove west
from his office at ten that morning he saw a drove of shabby men heading
toward the tangled, dirty district beyond Court House Square. He hated
them, because they were poor, because they made him feel insecure. "Damn
loafers! Wouldn't be common workmen if they had any pep," he complained.
He wondered if there was going to be a riot. He drove toward the
starting-point of the parade, a triangle of limp and faded grass known
as Moore Street Park, and halted his car.

The park and streets were buzzing with strikers, young men in blue denim
shirts, old men with caps. Through them, keeping them stirred like a
boiling pot, moved the militiamen. Babbitt could hear the soldiers'
monotonous orders: "Keep moving--move on, 'bo--keep your feet warm!"
Babbitt admired their stolid good temper. The crowd shouted, "Tin
soldiers," and "Dirty dogs--servants of the capitalists!" but the
militiamen grinned and answered only, "Sure, that's right. Keep moving,
Billy!"

Babbitt thrilled over the citizen-soldiers, hated the scoundrels who
were obstructing the pleasant ways of prosperity, admired Colonel
Nixon's striding contempt for the crowd; and as Captain Clarence Drum,
that rather puffing shoe-dealer, came raging by, Babbitt respectfully
clamored, "Great work, Captain! Don't let 'em march!" He watched the
strikers filing from the park. Many of them bore posters with "They
can't stop our peacefully walking." The militiamen tore away the
posters, but the strikers fell in behind their leaders and straggled
off, a thin unimpressive trickle between steel-glinting lines of
soldiers. Babbitt saw with disappointment that there wasn't going to be
any violence, nothing interesting at all. Then he gasped.

Among the marchers, beside a bulky young workman, was Seneca Doane,
smiling, content. In front of him was Professor Brockbank, head of
the history department in the State University, an old man and
white-bearded, known to come from a distinguished Massachusetts family.

"Why, gosh," Babbitt marveled, "a swell like him in with the strikers?
And good ole Senny Doane! They're fools to get mixed up with this bunch.
They're parlor socialists! But they have got nerve. And nothing in it
for them, not a cent! And--I don't know 's ALL the strikers look like
such tough nuts. Look just about like anybody else to me!"

The militiamen were turning the parade down a side street.

"They got just as much right to march as anybody else! They own the
streets as much as Clarence Drum or the American Legion does!" Babbitt
grumbled. "Of course, they're--they're a bad element, but--Oh, rats!"

At the Athletic Club, Babbitt was silent during lunch, while the others
fretted, "I don't know what the world's coming to," or solaced their
spirits with "kidding."

Captain Clarence Drum came swinging by, splendid in khaki.

"How's it going, Captain?" inquired Vergil Gunch.

"Oh, we got 'em stopped. We worked 'em off on side streets and separated
'em and they got discouraged and went home."

"Fine work. No violence."

"Fine work nothing!" groaned Mr. Drum. "If I had my way, there'd be a
whole lot of violence, and I'd start it, and then the whole thing would
be over. I don't believe in standing back and wet-nursing these fellows
and letting the disturbances drag on. I tell you these strikers are
nothing in God's world but a lot of bomb-throwing socialists and thugs,
and the only way to handle 'em is with a club! That's what I'd do; beat
up the whole lot of 'em!"

Babbitt heard himself saying, "Oh, rats, Clarence, they look just about
like you and me, and I certainly didn't notice any bombs."

Drum complained, "Oh, you didn't, eh? Well, maybe you'd like to take
charge of the strike! Just tell Colonel Nixon what innocents the
strikers are! He'd be glad to hear about it!" Drum strode on, while all
the table stared at Babbitt.

"What's the idea? Do you want us to give those hell-hounds love and
kisses, or what?" said Orville Jones.

"Do you defend a lot of hoodlums that are trying to take the bread and
butter away from our families?" raged Professor Pumphrey.

Vergil Gunch intimidatingly said nothing. He put on sternness like a
mask; his jaw was hard, his bristly short hair seemed cruel, his silence
was a ferocious thunder. While the others assured Babbitt that they must
have misunderstood him, Gunch looked as though he had understood only
too well. Like a robed judge he listened to Babbitt's stammering:

"No, sure; course they're a bunch of toughs. But I just mean--Strikes me
it's bad policy to talk about clubbing 'em. Cabe Nixon doesn't. He's
got the fine Italian hand. And that's why he's colonel. Clarence Drum is
jealous of him."

"Well," said Professor Pumphrey, "you hurt Clarence's feelings, George.
He's been out there all morning getting hot and dusty, and no wonder he
wants to beat the tar out of those sons of guns!"

Gunch said nothing, and watched; and Babbitt knew that he was being
watched.

III

As he was leaving the club Babbitt heard Chum Frink protesting to Gunch,
"--don't know what's got into him. Last Sunday Doc Drew preached a
corking sermon about decency in business and Babbitt kicked about that,
too. Near 's I can figure out--"

Babbitt was vaguely frightened.

IV

He saw a crowd listening to a man who was talking from the rostrum of a
kitchen-chair. He stopped his car. From newspaper pictures he knew that
the speaker must be the notorious freelance preacher, Beecher Ingram,
of whom Seneca Doane had spoken. Ingram was a gaunt man with flamboyant
hair, weather-beaten cheeks, and worried eyes. He was pleading:

"--if those telephone girls can hold out, living on one meal a day,
doing their own washing, starving and smiling, you big hulking men ought
to be able--"

Babbitt saw that from the sidewalk Vergil Gunch was watching him. In
vague disquiet he started the car and mechanically drove on, while
Gunch's hostile eyes seemed to follow him all the way.

V

"There's a lot of these fellows," Babbitt was complaining to his wife,
"that think if workmen go on strike they're a regular bunch of fiends.
Now, of course, it's a fight between sound business and the destructive
element, and we got to lick the stuffin's out of 'em when they challenge
us, but doggoned if I see why we can't fight like gentlemen and not go
calling 'em dirty dogs and saying they ought to be shot down."

"Why, George," she said placidly, "I thought you always insisted that
all strikers ought to be put in jail."

"I never did! Well, I mean--Some of 'em, of course. Irresponsible
leaders. But I mean a fellow ought to be broad-minded and liberal about
things like--"

"But dearie, I thought you always said these so-called 'liberal' people
were the worst of--"

"Rats! Woman never can understand the different definitions of a word.
Depends on how you mean it. And it don't pay to be too cocksure about
anything. Now, these strikers: Honest, they're not such bad people. Just
foolish. They don't understand the complications of merchandizing and
profit, the way we business men do, but sometimes I think they're
about like the rest of us, and no more hogs for wages than we are for
profits."

"George! If people were to hear you talk like that--of course I KNOW
you; I remember what a wild crazy boy you were; I know you don't mean a
word you say--but if people that didn't understand you were to hear you
talking, they'd think you were a regular socialist!"

"What do I care what anybody thinks? And let me tell you right now--I
want you to distinctly understand I never was a wild crazy kid, and when
I say a thing, I mean it, and I stand by it and--Honest, do you think
people would think I was too liberal if I just said the strikers were
decent?"

"Of course they would. But don't worry, dear; I know you don't mean
a word of it. Time to trot up to bed now. Have you enough covers for
to-night?"

On the sleeping-porch he puzzled, "She doesn't understand me. Hardly
understand myself. Why can't I take things easy, way I used to?

"Wish I could go out to Senny Doane's house and talk things over with
him. No! Suppose Verg Gunch saw me going in there!

"Wish I knew some really smart woman, and nice, that would see what I'm
trying to get at, and let me talk to her and--I wonder if Myra's right?
Could the fellows think I've gone nutty just because I'm broad-minded
and liberal? Way Verg looked at me--"

I

MISS McGOUN came into his private office at three in the afternoon with
"Lissen, Mr. Babbitt; there's a Mrs. Judique on the 'phone--wants to see
about some repairs, and the salesmen are all out. Want to talk to her?"

"All right."

The voice of Tanis Judique was clear and pleasant. The black cylinder
of the telephone-receiver seemed to hold a tiny animated image of her:
lustrous eyes, delicate nose, gentle chin.

"This is Mrs. Judique. Do you remember me? You drove me up here to the
Cavendish Apartments and helped me find such a nice flat."

"Sure! Bet I remember! What can I do for you?"

"Why, it's just a little--I don't know that I ought to bother you, but
the janitor doesn't seem to be able to fix it. You know my flat is on
the top floor, and with these autumn rains the roof is beginning to
leak, and I'd be awfully glad if--"

"Sure! I'll come up and take a look at it." Nervously, "When do you
expect to be in?"

"Why, I'm in every morning."

"Be in this afternoon, in an hour or so?"

"Ye-es. Perhaps I could give you a cup of tea. I think I ought to, after
all your trouble."

"Fine! I'll run up there soon as I can get away."

He meditated, "Now there's a woman that's got refinement, savvy, CLASS!
'After all your trouble--give you a cup of tea.' She'd appreciate a
fellow. I'm a fool, but I'm not such a bad cuss, get to know me. And not
so much a fool as they think!"

The great strike was over, the strikers beaten. Except that Vergil
Gunch seemed less cordial, there were no visible effects of Babbitt's
treachery to the clan. The oppressive fear of criticism was gone, but a
diffident loneliness remained. Now he was so exhilarated that, to prove
he wasn't, he droned about the office for fifteen minutes, looking at
blue-prints, explaining to Miss McGoun that this Mrs. Scott wanted more
money for her house--had raised the asking-price--raised it from seven
thousand to eighty-five hundred--would Miss McGoun be sure and put
it down on the card--Mrs. Scott's house--raise. When he had thus
established himself as a person unemotional and interested only in
business, he sauntered out. He took a particularly long time to start
his car; he kicked the tires, dusted the glass of the speedometer, and
tightened the screws holding the wind-shield spot-light.

He drove happily off toward the Bellevue district, conscious of the
presence of Mrs. Judique as of a brilliant light on the horizon. The
maple leaves had fallen and they lined the gutters of the asphalted
streets. It was a day of pale gold and faded green, tranquil and
lingering. Babbitt was aware of the meditative day, and of the
barrenness of Bellevue--blocks of wooden houses, garages, little shops,
weedy lots. "Needs pepping up; needs the touch that people like Mrs.
Judique could give a place," he ruminated, as he rattled through the
long, crude, airy streets. The wind rose, enlivening, keen, and in a
blaze of well-being he came to the flat of Tanis Judique.

She was wearing, when she flutteringly admitted him, a frock of black
chiffon cut modestly round at the base of her pretty throat. She seemed
to him immensely sophisticated. He glanced at the cretonnes and colored
prints in her living-room, and gurgled, "Gosh, you've fixed the place
nice! Takes a clever woman to know how to make a home, all right!"

"You really like it? I'm so glad! But you've neglected me, scandalously.
You promised to come some time and learn to dance."

Rather unsteadily, "Oh, but you didn't mean it seriously!"

"Perhaps not. But you might have tried!"

"Well, here I've come for my lesson, and you might just as well prepare
to have me stay for supper!"

They both laughed in a manner which indicated that of course he didn't
mean it.

"But first I guess I better look at that leak."

She climbed with him to the flat roof of the apartment-house a detached
world of slatted wooden walks, clotheslines, water-tank in a penthouse.
He poked at things with his toe, and sought to impress her by being
learned about copper gutters, the desirability of passing plumbing pipes
through a lead collar and sleeve and flashing them with copper, and the
advantages of cedar over boiler-iron for roof-tanks.

"You have to know so much, in real estate!" she admired.

He promised that the roof should be repaired within two days. "Do you
mind my 'phoning from your apartment?" he asked.

"Heavens, no!"

He stood a moment at the coping, looking over a land of hard little
bungalows with abnormally large porches, and new apartment-houses,
small, but brave with variegated brick walls and terra-cotta trimmings.
Beyond them was a hill with a gouge of yellow clay like a vast wound.
Behind every apartment-house, beside each dwelling, were small garages.
It was a world of good little people, comfortable, industrious,
credulous.

In the autumnal light the flat newness was mellowed, and the air was a
sun-tinted pool.

"Golly, it's one fine afternoon. You get a great view here, right up
Tanner's Hill," said Babbitt.

"Yes, isn't it nice and open."

"So darn few people appreciate a View."

"Don't you go raising my rent on that account! Oh, that was naughty
of me! I was just teasing. Seriously though, there are so few who
respond--who react to Views. I mean--they haven't any feeling of poetry
and beauty."

"That's a fact, they haven't," he breathed, admiring her slenderness and
the absorbed, airy way in which she looked toward the hill, chin lifted,
lips smiling. "Well, guess I'd better telephone the plumbers, so they'll
get on the job first thing in the morning."

When he had telephoned, making it conspicuously authoritative and gruff
and masculine, he looked doubtful, and sighed, "S'pose I'd better be--"

"Oh, you must have that cup of tea first!"

"Well, it would go pretty good, at that."

It was luxurious to loll in a deep green rep chair, his legs thrust
out before him, to glance at the black Chinese telephone stand and the
colored photograph of Mount Vernon which he had always liked so much,
while in the tiny kitchen--so near--Mrs. Judique sang "My Creole Queen."
In an intolerable sweetness, a contentment so deep that he was wistfully
discontented, he saw magnolias by moonlight and heard plantation darkies
crooning to the banjo. He wanted to be near her, on pretense of helping
her, yet he wanted to remain in this still ecstasy. Languidly he
remained.

When she bustled in with the tea he smiled up at her. "This is awfully
nice!" For the first time, he was not fencing; he was quietly and
securely friendly; and friendly and quiet was her answer: "It's nice to
have you here. You were so kind, helping me to find this little home."

They agreed that the weather would soon turn cold. They agreed that
prohibition was prohibitive. They agreed that art in the home was
cultural. They agreed about everything. They even became bold. They
hinted that these modern young girls, well, honestly, their short skirts
were short. They were proud to find that they were not shocked by such
frank speaking. Tanis ventured, "I know you'll understand--I mean--I
don't quite know how to say it, but I do think that girls who pretend
they're bad by the way they dress really never go any farther. They give
away the fact that they haven't the instincts of a womanly woman."

Remembering Ida Putiak, the manicure girl, and how ill she had used him,
Babbitt agreed with enthusiasm; remembering how ill all the world had
used him, he told of Paul Riesling, of Zilla, of Seneca Doane, of the
strike:

"See how it was? Course I was as anxious to have those beggars licked to
a standstill as anybody else, but gosh, no reason for not seeing their
side. For a fellow's own sake, he's got to be broad-minded and liberal,
don't you think so?"

"Oh, I do!" Sitting on the hard little couch, she clasped her hands
beside her, leaned toward him, absorbed him; and in a glorious state of
being appreciated he proclaimed:

"So I up and said to the fellows at the club, 'Look here,' I--"

"Do you belong to the Union Club? I think it's--"

"No; the Athletic. Tell you: Course they're always asking me to join
the Union, but I always say, 'No, sir! Nothing doing!' I don't mind the
expense but I can't stand all the old fogies."

"Oh, yes, that's so. But tell me: what did you say to them?"

"Oh, you don't want to hear it. I'm probably boring you to death with my
troubles! You wouldn't hardly think I was an old duffer; I sound like a
kid!"

"Oh, you're a boy yet. I mean--you can't be a day over forty-five."

"Well, I'm not--much. But by golly I begin to feel middle-aged
sometimes; all these responsibilities and all."

"Oh, I know!" Her voice caressed him; it cloaked him like warm silk.
"And I feel lonely, so lonely, some days, Mr. Babbitt."

"We're a sad pair of birds! But I think we're pretty darn nice!"

"Yes, I think we're lots nicer than most people I know!" They smiled.
"But please tell me what you said at the Club."

"Well, it was like this: Course Seneca Doane is a friend of mine--they
can say what they want to, they can call him anything they please, but
what most folks here don't know is that Senny is the bosom pal of some
of the biggest statesmen in the world--Lord Wycombe, frinstance--you
know, this big British nobleman. My friend Sir Gerald Doak told me
that Lord Wycombe is one of the biggest guns in England--well, Doak or
somebody told me."

"Oh! Do you know Sir Gerald? The one that was here, at the McKelveys'?"

"Know him? Well, say, I know him just well enough so we call each other
George and Jerry, and we got so pickled together in Chicago--"

"That must have been fun. But--" She shook a finger at him. "--I can't
have you getting pickled! I'll have to take you in hand!"

"Wish you would! . . . Well, zize saying: You see I happen to know what
a big noise Senny Doane is outside of Zenith, but of course a prophet
hasn't got any honor in his own country, and Senny, darn his old hide,
he's so blame modest that he never lets folks know the kind of an outfit
he travels with when he goes abroad. Well, during the strike Clarence
Drum comes pee-rading up to our table, all dolled up fit to kill in his
nice lil cap'n's uniform, and somebody says to him, 'Busting the strike,
Clarence?'

"Well, he swells up like a pouter-pigeon and he hollers, so 's you
could hear him way up in the reading-room, 'Yes, sure; I told the
strike-leaders where they got off, and so they went home.'

"'Well,' I says to him, 'glad there wasn't any violence.'

"'Yes,' he says, 'but if I hadn't kept my eye skinned there would 've
been. All those fellows had bombs in their pockets. They're reg'lar
anarchists.'

"'Oh, rats, Clarence,' I says, 'I looked 'em all over carefully, and
they didn't have any more bombs 'n a rabbit,' I says. 'Course,' I says,
'they're foolish, but they're a good deal like you and me, after all.'

"And then Vergil Gunch or somebody--no, it was Chum Frink--you know,
this famous poet--great pal of mine--he says to me, 'Look here,' he
says, 'do you mean to say you advocate these strikes?' Well, I was so
disgusted with a fellow whose mind worked that way that I swear, I had a
good mind to not explain at all--just ignore him--"

"Oh, that's so wise!" said Mrs. Judique.

"--but finally I explains to him: 'If you'd done as much as I have on
Chamber of Commerce committees and all,' I says, 'then you'd have the
right to talk! But same time,' I says, 'I believe in treating your
opponent like a gentleman!' Well, sir, that held 'em! Frink--Chum I
always call him--he didn't have another word to say. But at that, I
guess some of 'em kind o' thought I was too liberal. What do you think?"

"Oh, you were so wise. And courageous! I love a man to have the courage
of his convictions!"

"But do you think it was a good stunt? After all, some of these fellows
are so darn cautious and narrow-minded that they're prejudiced against a
fellow that talks right out in meeting."

"What do you care? In the long run they're bound to respect a man who
makes them think, and with your reputation for oratory you--"

"What do you know about my reputation for oratory?"

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you everything I know! But seriously, you
don't realize what a famous man you are."

"Well--Though I haven't done much orating this fall. Too kind of
bothered by this Paul Riesling business, I guess. But--Do you know,
you're the first person that's really understood what I was getting at,
Tanis--Listen to me, will you! Fat nerve I've got, calling you Tanis!"

"Oh, do! And shall I call you George? Don't you think it's awfully nice
when two people have so much--what shall I call it?--so much analysis
that they can discard all these stupid conventions and understand each
other and become acquainted right away, like ships that pass in the
night?"

"I certainly do! I certainly do!"

He was no longer quiescent in his chair; he wandered about the room, he
dropped on the couch beside her. But as he awkwardly stretched his hand
toward her fragile, immaculate fingers, she said brightly, "Do give me
a cigarette. Would you think poor Tanis was dreadfully naughty if she
smoked?"

"Lord, no! I like it!"

He had often and weightily pondered flappers smoking in Zenith
restaurants, but he knew only one woman who smoked--Mrs. Sam Doppelbrau,
his flighty neighbor. He ceremoniously lighted Tanis's cigarette, looked
for a place to deposit the burnt match, and dropped it into his pocket.

"I'm sure you want a cigar, you poor man!" she crooned.

"Do you mind one?"

"Oh, no! I love the smell of a good cigar; so nice and--so nice and like
a man. You'll find an ash-tray in my bedroom, on the table beside the
bed, if you don't mind getting it."

He was embarrassed by her bedroom: the broad couch with a cover of
violet silk, mauve curtains striped with gold. Chinese Chippendale
bureau, and an amazing row of slippers, with ribbon-wound shoe-trees,
and primrose stockings lying across them. His manner of bringing the
ash-tray had just the right note of easy friendliness, he felt. "A boob
like Verg Gunch would try to get funny about seeing her bedroom, but
I take it casually." He was not casual afterward. The contentment of
companionship was gone, and he was restless with desire to touch her
hand. But whenever he turned toward her, the cigarette was in his way.
It was a shield between them. He waited till she should have finished,
but as he rejoiced at her quick crushing of its light on the ashtray she
said, "Don't you want to give me another cigarette?" and hopelessly he
saw the screen of pale smoke and her graceful tilted hand again between
them. He was not merely curious now to find out whether she would
let him hold her hand (all in the purest friendship, naturally), but
agonized with need of it.

On the surface appeared none of all this fretful drama. They were
talking cheerfully of motors, of trips to California, of Chum Frink.
Once he said delicately, "I do hate these guys--I hate these people that
invite themselves to meals, but I seem to have a feeling I'm going to
have supper with the lovely Mrs. Tanis Judique to-night. But I suppose
you probably have seven dates already."

"Well, I was thinking some of going to the movies. Yes, I really think I
ought to get out and get some fresh air."

She did not encourage him to stay, but never did she discourage him.
He considered, "I better take a sneak! She WILL let me stay--there IS
something doing--and I mustn't get mixed up with--I mustn't--I've got to
beat it." Then, "No. it's too late now."

Suddenly, at seven, brushing her cigarette away, brusquely taking her
hand:

"Tanis! Stop teasing me! You know we--Here we are, a couple of lonely
birds, and we're awful happy together. Anyway I am! Never been so
happy! Do let me stay! I'll gallop down to the delicatessen and buy some
stuff--cold chicken maybe--or cold turkey--and we can have a nice little
supper, and afterwards, if you want to chase me out, I'll be good and go
like a lamb."

"Well--yes--it would be nice," she said.

Nor did she withdraw her hand. He squeezed it, trembling, and blundered
toward his coat. At the delicatessen he bought preposterous stores of
food, chosen on the principle of expensiveness. From the drug store
across the street he telephoned to his wife, "Got to get a fellow to
sign a lease before he leaves town on the midnight. Won't be home till
late. Don't wait up for me. Kiss Tinka good-night." He expectantly
lumbered back to the flat.

"Oh, you bad thing, to buy so much food!" was her greeting, and her
voice was gay, her smile acceptant.

He helped her in the tiny white kitchen; he washed the lettuce, he
opened the olive bottle. She ordered him to set the table, and as he
trotted into the living-room, as he hunted through the buffet for knives
and forks, he felt utterly at home.

"Now the only other thing," he announced, "is what you're going to wear.
I can't decide whether you're to put on your swellest evening gown, or
let your hair down and put on short skirts and make-believe you're a
little girl."

"I'm going to dine just as I am, in this old chiffon rag, and if you
can't stand poor Tanis that way, you can go to the club for dinner!"

"Stand you!" He patted her shoulder. "Child, you're the brainiest and
the loveliest and finest woman I've ever met! Come now, Lady Wycombe,
if you'll take the Duke of Zenith's arm, we will proambulate in to the
magnolious feed!"

"Oh, you do say the funniest, nicest things!"

When they had finished the picnic supper he thrust his head out of the
window and reported, "It's turned awful chilly, and I think it's going
to rain. You don't want to go to the movies."

"Well--"

"I wish we had a fireplace! I wish it was raining like all get-out
to-night, and we were in a funny little old-fashioned cottage, and
the trees thrashing like everything outside, and a great big log fire
and--I'll tell you! Let's draw this couch up to the radiator, and
stretch our feet out, and pretend it's a wood-fire."

"Oh, I think that's pathetic! You big child!"

But they did draw up to the radiator, and propped their feet against
it--his clumsy black shoes, her patent-leather slippers. In the dimness
they talked of themselves; of how lonely she was, how bewildered he, and
how wonderful that they had found each other. As they fell silent the
room was stiller than a country lane. There was no sound from the street
save the whir of motor-tires, the rumble of a distant freight-train.
Self-contained was the room, warm, secure, insulated from the harassing
world.

He was absorbed by a rapture in which all fear and doubting were
smoothed away; and when he reached home, at dawn, the rapture had
mellowed to contentment serene and full of memories.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Late in September, a major strike takes place in Zenith. It begins with a walkout of telephone company employees, and they are soon joined by truck drivers and dairy product workers. Many other unions act in sympathy with them and, before long, the city rings with talk of a general strike. Most business and industry in Zenith is almost at a standstill. Everyone in the city feels compelled to take sides in this dispute because the strike is bitter. There are many street demonstrations and fights between strikers and scabs. A fire in one of the closed factories is blamed on the workers. Seneca Doane is one of the few prominent citizens to stand up for the strikers, and he defends a number of them in court. Not surprisingly, all of Babbitt's friends and associates angrily oppose the workers. One Sunday, Dr. Drew delivers a sermon against the strike. Babbitt questions the wisdom of the pastor's outlook and arouses the suspicions of his friends. Later on, at the Athletic Club, Babbitt speaks out in behalf of an objective evaluation of the issues. His friends begin to grow alarmed. Eventually, the National Guard is called out to maintain order. Since the officers and most of the enlisted men are from the conservative class, the strikers often receive harsh treatment. Babbitt protests this brutality, claiming that the striking workers are not bomb throwers or revolutionaries, and that they are entitled to their right to protest. Later on, Babbitt is seen attending a leftist street meeting. His cronies begin to fear that he is becoming a radical. Myra and the children do not understand Babbitt's political change. They are confused, and likewise, Babbitt himself is confused. He is not a socialist nor a traitor to his class. He is only trying to stand up for fair play and mutual understanding. He wishes he had someone to discuss his problems with. One afternoon, Tanis Judique calls Babbitt's office to inquire about some repairs to her apartment. Babbitt decides to take care of the matter personally, and so he goes to see her. When he gets there, they have a cup of tea and soon grow chummy. He tells her about some of his problems, including the scandal about Paul and Zilla and the continuing reaction of his friends to his attitude during the recent strike. Tanis is sympathetic and understanding; she admires his courage. Babbitt brags about his business and social achievements, and she appears impressed. Before long, they start to address each other by their first names and begin to grow affectionate. Babbitt telephones his wife and tells her that he has to work late; he is, of course, going to have dinner with Tanis and spend most of the evening in her apartment. In her presence, he feels serenity and a confidence that he has not felt in months.