IV
If he was frightened by Ted's slackness, Babbitt was not
sufficiently frightened by Verona. She was too safe. She
lived too much in the neat little airless room of her mind.
Kenneth Escott and she were always under foot. When they
were not at home, conducting their cautiously radical courtship
over sheets of statistics, they were trudging off to lectures
by authors and Hindu philosophers and Swedish lieutenants.
"Gosh,'' Babbitt wailed to his wife, as they walked home
from the Fogartys' bridge-party, "it gets me how Rone and
that fellow can be so poky. They sit there night after night,
whenever he isn't working, and they don't know there's any
fun in the world. All talk and discussion—Lord! Sitting
there—sitting there—night after night—not wanting to do
anything—thinking I'm crazy because I like to go out and
play a fist of cards—sitting there—gosh!''
Then round the swimmer, bored by struggling through the
perpetual surf of family life, new combers swelled.
