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 a............