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 oug............