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! Ill 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.
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