Chapter: I

HE drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at
corners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from
facing the obscenity of fate.

The attendant said, "Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners till
three-thirty--visiting-hour."

It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a calendar and
a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard and mean and creaky.
People went through the office and, he thought, stared at him. He felt
a belligerent defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machine
which was grinding Paul--Paul----

Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name.

The attendant returned with "Riesling says he don't want to see you."

"You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him it's George wants
to see him, George Babbitt."

"Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn't want to see
you."

"Then take me in anyway."

"Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't want to see you,
that's all there is to it."

"But, my GOD--Say, let me see the warden."

"He's busy. Come on, now, you--" Babbitt reared over him. The attendant
hastily changed to a coaxing "You can come back and try to-morrow.
Probably the poor guy is off his nut."

Babbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily, sliding viciously past
trucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to the City Hall; he stopped
with a grind of wheels against the curb, and ran up the marble steps to
the office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas Prout, the mayor. He bribed the mayor's
doorman with a dollar; he was instantly inside, demanding, "You remember
me, Mr. Prout? Babbitt--vice-president of the Boosters--campaigned for
you? Say, have you heard about poor Riesling? Well, I want an order on
the warden or whatever you call um of the City Prison to take me back
and see him. Good. Thanks."

In fifteen minutes he was pounding down the prison corridor to a cage
where Paul Riesling sat on a cot, twisted like an old beggar, legs
crossed, arms in a knot, biting at his clenched fist.

Paul looked up blankly as the keeper unlocked the cell, admitted
Babbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly: "Go on! Be moral!"

Babbitt plumped on the couch beside him. "I'm not going to be moral!
I don't care what happened! I just want to do anything I can. I'm glad
Zilla got what was coming to her."

Paul said argumentatively, "Now, don't go jumping on Zilla. I've been
thinking; maybe she hasn't had any too easy a time. Just after I shot
her--I didn't hardly mean to, but she got to deviling me so I went
crazy, just for a second, and pulled out that old revolver you and I
used to shoot rabbits with, and took a crack at her. Didn't hardly mean
to--After that, when I was trying to stop the blood--It was terrible
what it did to her shoulder, and she had beautiful skin--Maybe she won't
die. I hope it won't leave her skin all scarred. But just afterward,
when I was hunting through the bathroom for some cotton to stop the
blood, I ran onto a little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree one
Christmas, and I remembered she and I'd been awfully happy then--Hell. I
can't hardly believe it's me here." As Babbitt's arm tightened about
his shoulder, Paul sighed, "I'm glad you came. But I thought maybe you'd
lecture me, and when you've committed a murder, and been brought here
and everything--there was a big crowd outside the apartment house, all
staring, and the cops took me through it--Oh, I'm not going to talk
about it any more."

But he went on, in a monotonous, terrified insane mumble. To divert him
Babbitt said, "Why, you got a scar on your cheek."

"Yes. That's where the cop hit me. I suppose cops get a lot of fun out
of lecturing murderers, too. He was a big fellow. And they wouldn't let
me help carry Zilla down to the ambulance."

"Paul! Quit it! Listen: she won't die, and when it's all over you and
I'll go off to Maine again. And maybe we can get that May Arnold to
go along. I'll go up to Chicago and ask her. Good woman, by golly. And
afterwards I'll see that you get started in business out West somewhere,
maybe Seattle--they say that's a lovely city."

Paul was half smiling. It was Babbitt who rambled now. He could not tell
whether Paul was heeding, but he droned on till the coming of Paul's
lawyer, P. J. Maxwell, a thin, busy, unfriendly man who nodded at
Babbitt and hinted, "If Riesling and I could be alone for a moment--"

Babbitt wrung Paul's hands, and waited in the office till Maxwell came
pattering out. "Look, old man, what can I do?" he begged.

"Nothing. Not a thing. Not just now," said Maxwell. "Sorry. Got to
hurry. And don't try to see him. I've had the doctor give him a shot of
morphine, so he'll sleep."

It seemed somehow wicked to return to the office. Babbitt felt as though
he had just come from a funeral. He drifted out to the City Hospital to
inquire about Zilla. She was not likely to die, he learned. The bullet
from Paul's huge old .44 army revolver had smashed her shoulder and torn
upward and out.

He wandered home and found his wife radiant with the horified
interest we have in the tragedies of our friends. "Of course Paul isn't
altogether to blame, but this is what comes of his chasing after other
women instead of bearing his cross in a Christian way," she exulted.

He was too languid to respond as he desired. He said what was to be said
about the Christian bearing of crosses, and went out to clean the car.
Dully, patiently, he scraped linty grease from the drip-pan, gouged
at the mud caked on the wheels. He used up many minutes in washing his
hands; scoured them with gritty kitchen soap; rejoiced in hurting his
plump knuckles. "Damn soft hands--like a woman's. Aah!"

At dinner, when his wife began the inevitable, he bellowed, "I forbid
any of you to say a word about Paul! I'll 'tend to all the talking about
this that's necessary, hear me? There's going to be one house in
this scandal-mongering town to-night that isn't going to spring the
holier-than-thou. And throw those filthy evening papers out of the
house!"

But he himself read the papers, after dinner.

Before nine he set out for the house of Lawyer Maxwell. He was received
without cordiality. "Well?" said Maxwell.

"I want to offer my services in the trial. I've got an idea. Why
couldn't I go on the stand and swear I was there, and she pulled the gun
first and he wrestled with her and the gun went off accidentally?"

"And perjure yourself?"

"Huh? Yes, I suppose it would be perjury. Oh--Would it help?"

"But, my dear fellow! Perjury!"

"Oh, don't be a fool! Excuse me, Maxwell; I didn't mean to get your
goat. I just mean: I've known and you've known many and many a case of
perjury, just to annex some rotten little piece of real estate, and
here where it's a case of saving Paul from going to prison, I'd perjure
myself black in the face."

"No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, I'm afraid it isn't
practicable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony to pieces. It's
known that only Riesling and his wife were there at the time."

"Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear--and this would be
the God's truth--that she pestered him till he kind of went crazy."

"No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any testimony reflecting
on his wife. He insists on pleading guilty."

"Then let me get up and testify something--whatever you say. Let me do
SOMETHING!"

"I'm sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do--I hate to say it,
but you could help us most by keeping strictly out of it."

Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant, winced so
visibly that Maxwell condescended:

"I don't like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want to do our
best for Riesling, and we mustn't consider any other factor. The trouble
with you, Babbitt, is that you're one of these fellows who talk too
readily. You like to hear your own voice. If there were anything for
which I could put you in the witness-box, you'd get going and give the
whole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over some papers--So sorry."


II

He spent most of the next morning nerving himself to face the garrulous
world of the Athletic Club. They would talk about Paul; they would
be lip-licking and rotten. But at the Roughnecks' Table they did not
mention Paul. They spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. He
loved them as he never had before.


III

He had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul's trial as a
long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden and
overwhelming new testimony. Actually, the trial occupied less than
fifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla
would recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next day
Paul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and taken
off--quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tired
way beside a cheerful deputy sheriff--and after saying good-by to him
at the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a
world which, without Paul, was meaningless.





I

HE was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from the bewilderment
of thinking. His wife and the neighbors were generous. Every evening he
played bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face
and silent.

In June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and
Babbitt was free to do--he was not quite sure what.

All day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated house
in which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without
having to keep up a husbandly front. He considered, "I could have a
reg'lar party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining
afterwards. Cheers!" He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson.
Both of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by
having to take so much trouble to be riotous.

He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and Verona, hesitating
but not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott's
opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew's opinion of the opinions of the
evolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation,
and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race,
what he had said to the Old Grouch, what he had said to the foreman
about the future of wireless telephony.

Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the maid was out.
Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening. He was
restless. He vaguely wanted something more diverting than the newspaper
comic strips to read. He ambled up to Verona's room, sat on her maidenly
blue and white bed, humming and grunting in a solid-citizen manner as he
examined her books: Conrad's "Rescue," a volume strangely named "Figures
of Earth," poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel
Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken--highly improper essays, making fun
of the church and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them
he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship.
These authors--and he supposed they were famous ones, too--did not seem
to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget
his troubles. He sighed. He noted a book, "The Three Black Pennies,"
by Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an
adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting--detectives sneaking up on
the old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped
down-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:

"A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly
wooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already
stamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with
patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening
underbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above
the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening. Howat Penny,
standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the
shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He
had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day
his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,
permeating him...."

There it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid
down the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the
house were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the
refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the
window. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire
screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire. The whole world was
abnormal. While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to
bed. Silence thickened in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his
respectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the
house, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming "Silver Threads
among the Gold." He casually considered, "Might call up Paul." Then he
remembered. He saw Paul in a jailbird's uniform, but while he agonized
he didn't believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this
fog-enchanted evening.

If she were here Myra would be hinting, "Isn't it late, Georgie?" He
tramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom. Fog hid the house now. The
world was uncreated, a chaos without turmoil or desire.

Through the mist came a man at so feverish a pace that he seemed to
dance with fury as he entered the orb of glow from a street-lamp. At
each step he brandished his stick and brought it down with a crash. His
glasses on their broad pretentious ribbon banged against his stomach.
Babbitt incredulously saw that it was Chum Frink.

Frink stopped, focused his vision, and spoke with gravity:

"There's another fool. George Babbitt. Lives for renting
howshes--houses. Know who I am? I'm traitor to poetry. I'm drunk. I'm
talking too much. I don't care. Know what I could 've been? I could 've
been a Gene Field or a James Whitcomb Riley. Maybe a Stevenson.
I could 've. Whimsies. 'Magination. Lissen. Lissen to this. Just
made it up:

     Glittering summery meadowy noise
     Of beetles and bums and respectable boys.

Hear that? Whimzh--whimsy. I made that up. I don't know what it means!
Beginning good verse. Chile's Garden Verses. And whadi write? Tripe!
Cheer-up poems. All tripe! Could have written--Too late!"

He darted on with an alarming plunge, seeming always to pitch forward
yet never quite falling. Babbitt would have been no more astonished
and no less had a ghost skipped out of the fog carrying his head.
He accepted Frink with vast apathy; he grunted, "Poor boob!" and
straightway forgot him.

He plodded into the house, deliberately went to the refrigerator and
rifled it. When Mrs. Babbitt was at home, this was one of the major
household crimes. He stood before the covered laundry tubs, eating a
chicken leg and half a saucer of raspberry jelly, and grumbling over a
clammy cold boiled potato. He was thinking. It was coming to him that
perhaps all life as he knew it and vigorously practised it was futile;
that heaven as portrayed by the Reverend Dr. John Jennison Drew was
neither probable nor very interesting; that he hadn't much pleasure out
of making money; that it was of doubtful worth to rear children merely
that they might rear children who would rear children. What was it all
about? What did he want?

He blundered into the living-room, lay on the davenport, hands behind
his head.

What did he want? Wealth? Social position? Travel? Servants? Yes, but
only incidentally.

"I give it up," he sighed.

But he did know that he wanted the presence of Paul Riesling; and from
that he stumbled into the admission that he wanted the fairy girl--in
the flesh. If there had been a woman whom he loved, he would have fled
to her, humbled his forehead on her knees.

He thought of his stenographer, Miss McGoun. He thought of the prettiest
of the manicure girls at the Hotel Thornleigh barber shop. As he fell
asleep on the davenport he felt that he had found something in life, and
that he had made a terrifying, thrilling break with everything that was
decent and normal.


II

He had forgotten, next morning, that he was a conscious rebel, but he
was irritable in the office and at the eleven o'clock drive of telephone
calls and visitors he did something he had often desired and never
dared: he left the office without excuses to those slave-drivers his
employees, and went to the movies. He enjoyed the right to be alone. He
came out with a vicious determination to do what he pleased.

As he approached the Roughnecks' Table at the club, everybody laughed.

"Well, here's the millionaire!" said Sidney Finkelstein.

"Yes, I saw him in his Locomobile!" said Professor Pumphrey.

"Gosh, it must be great to be a smart guy like Georgie!" moaned Vergil
Gunch. "He's probably stolen all of Dorchester. I'd hate to leave a poor
little defenseless piece of property lying around where he could get his
hooks on it!"

They had, Babbitt perceived, "something on him." Also, they "had their
kidding clothes on." Ordinarily he would have been delighted at the
honor implied in being chaffed, but he was suddenly touchy. He grunted,
"Yuh, sure; maybe I'll take you guys on as office boys!" He was
impatient as the jest elaborately rolled on to its denouement.

"Of course he may have been meeting a girl," they said, and "No, I think
he was waiting for his old roommate, Sir Jerusalem Doak."

He exploded, "Oh, spring it, spring it, you boneheads! What's the great
joke?"

"Hurray! George is peeved!" snickered Sidney Finkelstein, while a grin
went round the table. Gunch revealed the shocking truth: He had seen
Babbitt coming out of a motion-picture theater--at noon!

They kept it up. With a hundred variations, a hundred guffaws, they said
that he had gone to the movies during business-hours. He didn't so much
mind Gunch, but he was annoyed by Sidney Finkelstein, that brisk, lean,
red-headed explainer of jokes. He was bothered, too, by the lump of ice
in his glass of water. It was too large; it spun round and burned his
nose when he tried to drink. He raged that Finkelstein was like that
lump of ice. But he won through; he kept up his banter till they grew
tired of the superlative jest and turned to the great problems of the
day.

He reflected, "What's the matter with me to-day? Seems like I've got an
awful grouch. Only they talk so darn much. But I better steer careful
and keep my mouth shut."

As they lighted their cigars he mumbled, "Got to get back," and on a
chorus of "If you WILL go spending your mornings with lady ushers at the
movies!" he escaped. He heard them giggling. He was embarrassed. While
he was most bombastically agreeing with the coat-man that the weather
was warm, he was conscious that he was longing to run childishly with
his troubles to the comfort of the fairy child.


III

He kept Miss McGoun after he had finished dictating. He searched for a
topic which would warm her office impersonality into friendliness.

"Where you going on your vacation?" he purred.

"I think I'll go up-state to a farm do you want me to have the Siddons
lease copied this afternoon?"

"Oh, no hurry about it.... I suppose you have a great time when you get
away from us cranks in the office."

She rose and gathered her pencils. "Oh, nobody's cranky here I think I
can get it copied after I do the letters."

She was gone. Babbitt utterly repudiated the view that he had been
trying to discover how approachable was Miss McGoun. "Course! knew there
was nothing doing!" he said.


IV

Eddie Swanson, the motor-car agent who lived across the street from
Babbitt, was giving a Sunday supper. His wife Louetta, young Louetta who
loved jazz in music and in clothes and laughter, was at her wildest. She
cried, "We'll have a real party!" as she received the guests. Babbitt
had uneasily felt that to many men she might be alluring; now he
admitted that to himself she was overwhelmingly alluring. Mrs. Babbitt
had never quite approved of Louetta; Babbitt was glad that she was not
here this evening.

He insisted on helping Louetta in the kitchen: taking the chicken
croquettes from the warming-oven, the lettuce sandwiches from the
ice-box. He held her hand, once, and she depressingly didn't notice it.
She caroled, "You're a good little mother's-helper, Georgie. Now trot in
with the tray and leave it on the side-table."

He wished that Eddie Swanson would give them cocktails; that Louetta
would have one. He wanted--Oh, he wanted to be one of these Bohemians
you read about. Studio parties. Wild lovely girls who were independent.
Not necessarily bad. Certainly not! But not tame, like Floral Heights.
How he'd ever stood it all these years--

Eddie did not give them cocktails. True, they supped with mirth, and
with several repetitions by Orville Jones of "Any time Louetta wants to
come sit on my lap I'll tell this sandwich to beat it!" but they
were respectable, as befitted Sunday evening. Babbitt had discreetly
preempted a place beside Louetta on the piano bench. While he talked
about motors, while he listened with a fixed smile to her account of the
film she had seen last Wednesday, while he hoped that she would hurry up
and finish her description of the plot, the beauty of the leading man,
and the luxury of the setting, he studied her. Slim waist girdled
with raw silk, strong brows, ardent eyes, hair parted above a broad
forehead--she meant youth to him and a charm which saddened. He thought
of how valiant a companion she would be on a long motor tour, exploring
mountains, picnicking in a pine grove high above a valley. Her frailness
touched him; he was angry at Eddie Swanson for the incessant family
bickering. All at once he identified Louetta with the fairy girl. He
was startled by the conviction that they had always had a romantic
attraction for each other.

"I suppose you're leading a simply terrible life, now you're a widower,"
she said.

"You bet! I'm a bad little fellow and proud of it. Some evening you slip
Eddie some dope in his coffee and sneak across the road and I'll show
you how to mix a cocktail," he roared.

"Well, now, I might do it! You never can tell!"

"Well, whenever you're ready, you just hang a towel out of the attic
window and I'll jump for the gin!"

Every one giggled at this naughtiness. In a pleased way Eddie Swanson
stated that he would have a physician analyze his coffee daily. The
others were diverted to a discussion of the more agreeable recent
murders, but Babbitt drew Louetta back to personal things:

"That's the prettiest dress I ever saw in my life."

"Do you honestly like it?"

"Like it? Why, say, I'm going to have Kenneth Escott put a piece in the
paper saying that the swellest dressed woman in the U. S. is Mrs. E.
Louetta Swanson."

"Now, you stop teasing me!" But she beamed. "Let's dance a little.
George, you've got to dance with me."

Even as he protested, "Oh, you know what a rotten dancer I am!" he was
lumbering to his feet.

"I'll teach you. I can teach anybody."

Her eyes were moist, her voice was jagged with excitement. He was
convinced that he had won her. He clasped her, conscious of her smooth
warmth, and solemnly he circled in a heavy version of the one-step. He
bumped into only one or two people. "Gosh, I'm not doing so bad; hittin'
'em up like a regular stage dancer!" he gloated; and she answered
busily, "Yes--yes--I told you I could teach anybody--DON'T TAKE SUCH
LONG STEPS!"

For a moment he was robbed of confidence; with fearful concentration
he sought to keep time to the music. But he was enveloped again by her
enchantment. "She's got to like me; I'll make her!" he vowed. He tried
to kiss the lock beside her ear. She mechanically moved her head to
avoid it, and mechanically she murmured, "Don't!"

For a moment he hated her, but after the moment he was as urgent as
ever. He danced with Mrs. Orville Jones, but he watched Louetta swooping
down the length of the room with her husband. "Careful! You're getting
foolish!" he cautioned himself, the while he hopped and bent his solid
knees in dalliance with Mrs. Jones, and to that worthy lady rumbled,
"Gee, it's hot!" Without reason, he thought of Paul in that shadowy
place where men never dance. "I'm crazy to-night; better go home," he
worried, but he left Mrs. Jones and dashed to Louetta's lovely side,
demanding, "The next is mine."

"Oh, I'm so hot; I'm not going to dance this one."

"Then," boldly, "come out and sit on the porch and get all nice and
cool."

"Well--"

In the tender darkness, with the clamor in the house behind them, he
resolutely took her hand. She squeezed his once, then relaxed.

"Louetta! I think you're the nicest thing I know!"

"Well, I think you're very nice."

"Do you? You got to like me! I'm so lonely!"

"Oh, you'll be all right when your wife comes home."

"No, I'm always lonely."

She clasped her hands under her chin, so that he dared not touch her. He
sighed:

"When I feel punk and--" He was about to bring in the tragedy of Paul,
but that was too sacred even for the diplomacy of love. "--when I get
tired out at the office and everything, I like to look across the street
and think of you. Do you know I dreamed of you, one time!"

"Was it a nice dream?"

"Lovely!"

"Oh, well, they say dreams go by opposites! Now I must run in."

She was on her feet.

"Oh, don't go in yet! Please, Louetta!"

"Yes, I must. Have to look out for my guests."

"Let 'em look out for 'emselves!"

"I couldn't do that." She carelessly tapped his shoulder and slipped
away.

But after two minutes of shamed and childish longing to sneak home he
was snorting, "Certainly I wasn't trying to get chummy with her! Knew
there was nothing doing, all the time!" and he ambled in to dance with
Mrs. Orville Jones, and to avoid Louetta, virtuously and conspicuously.

 Babbitt is able to see Paul at the City Prison only after using his influence with Mayor Prout. He visits Riesling in his cell, and Paul antagonistically expects Babbitt to be moralistic, but Babbitt says that he wants only to help. Paul is terribly upset and expresses remorse for his crime. He hopes that Zilla will not die, and Babbitt tries to comfort him. For the rest of the day, Babbitt is very sad and confused. He forbids his family to discuss the case because wherever he goes, he hears or imagines the gossip and scandal-mongering, and he wants a little peace. The next afternoon, however, Babbitt discovers that he is afraid to face his friends at the Athletic Club. When he comes in for lunch, though, the men demonstrate an understanding of his feelings and no one mentions the matter. Babbitt's gratitude to them is sincere. Zilla recovers from her gunshot sound, and Paul's trial is held. He is sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary. Babbitt bids him good-bye at the railroad station, and then he suddenly realizes that without Paul, life has very little meaning for him. During the next few months, Babbitt tries to keep himself busy in an effort to avoid thinking. Then, in June, Babbitt tries to organize a poker game, but he discovers that all his friends are busy. He realizes too that he doesn't want to play cards anyway. What he really wants is not a card game, nor wealth, or even social position. What he wants -- and needs -- is the friendship of Paul and the understanding and devotion of a woman, a woman like the fairy girl of his dreams. In the future, he decides, he will be a rebel and will do only what he really wants to do. The next day at the club, however, Babbitt is not so rebellious as he is irritable. His friends tease him, but he is unresponsive. He continues to assert his new independence by going to the movies during business hours. Without admitting it to himself, Babbitt begins to seek female companionship -- for this is what he really longs for. Unhappily, his advances to his stenographer, Miss McGoun, are unsuccessful. Later that week at a party, Babbitt attempts to befriend Louetta Swanson, having recalled her reputation as a flirt, but Louetta thinks that Babbitt is silly; she tells him that he's merely lonely for his wife.

