IV
There was no reason, he assured himself, why he shouldn't
have a quiet dinner with a poor girl who would benefit by
association with an educated and mature person like himself.
But, lest some one see them and not understand, he would take
her to Biddlemeier's Inn, on the outskirts of the city. They
would have a pleasant drive, this hot lonely evening, and he
might hold her hand—no, he wouldn't even do that. Ida was
complaisant; her bare shoulders showed it only too clearly;
but he'd be hanged if he'd make love to her merely because
she expected it.
Then his car broke down; something had happened to the
ignition. And he had to have the car this evening!
Furiously
he tested the spark-plugs, stared at the commutator.
His angriest glower did not seem to stir the sulky car, and
in disgrace it was hauled off to a garage. With a renewed
thrill he thought of a taxicab. There was something at once
wealthy and interestingly wicked about a taxicab.
But when he met her, on a corner two blocks from the Hotel
Thornleigh, she said, "A taxi? Why, I thought you owned
a car!''
"I do. Of course I do! But it's out of commission to-night.''
"Oh,'' she remarked, as one who had heard that tale before.
All the way out to Biddlemeier's Inn he tried to talk as an
old friend, but he could not pierce the wall of her words. With
interminable indignation she narrated her retorts to "that
fresh head-barber'' and the drastic things she would do to
him if he persisted in saying that she was "better at gassing
than at hoof-paring.''
At Biddlemeier's Inn they were unable to get anything to
drink. The head-waiter refused to understand who George
F. Babbitt was. They sat steaming before a vast mixed grill,
and made conversation about baseball. When he tried to hold
Ida's hand she said with bright friendliness, "Careful! That
fresh waiter is rubbering.'' But they came out into a treacherous
summer night, the air lazy and a little moon above transfigured
maples.
"Let's drive some other place, where we can get a drink
and dance!'' he demanded.
"Sure, some other night. But I promised Ma I'd be home
early to-night.''
"Rats! It's too nice to go home.''
"I'd just love to, but Ma would give me fits.''
He was trembling. She was everything that was young and
exquisite. He put his arm about her. She snuggled against
his shoulder, unafraid, and he was triumphant. Then she ran
down the steps of the Inn, singing, "Come on, Georgie, we'll
have a nice drive and get cool.''
It was a night of lovers. All along the highway into Zenith,
under the low and gentle moon, motors were parked and dim
figures were clasped in revery. He held out hungry hands to
Ida, and when she patted them he was grateful. There was
no sense of struggle and transition; he kissed her and simply
she responded to his kiss, they two behind the stolid back of
the chauffeur.
Her hat fell off, and she broke from his embrace to reach
for it.
"Oh, let it be!'' he implored.
"Huh? My hat? Not a chance!''
He waited till she had pinned it on, then his arm sank
about her. She drew away from it, and said with maternal
soothing, "Now, don't be a silly boy! Mustn't make Ittle
Mama scold! Just sit back, dearie, and see what a swell night
it is. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll kiss you when we say
nighty-night. Now give me a cigarette.''
He was solicitous about lighting her cigarette and inquiring
as to her comfort. Then he sat as far from her as possible.
He was cold with failure. No one could have told Babbitt
that he was a fool with more vigor, precision, and intelligence
than he himself displayed. He reflected that from the standpoint
of the Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew he was a wicked
man, and from the standpoint of Miss Ida Putiak, an old bore
who had to be endured as the penalty attached to eating a
large dinner.
"Dearie, you aren't going to go and get peevish, are you?''
She spoke pertly. He wanted to spank her. He brooded,
"I don't have to take anything off this gutter-pup! Darn
immigrant! Well, let's get it over as quick as we can, and
sneak home and kick ourselves for the rest of the night.''
He snorted, "Huh? Me peevish? Why, you baby, why
should I be peevish? Now, listen, Ida; listen to Uncle George.
I want to put you wise about this scrapping with your head-barber
all the time. I've had a lot of experience with employees,
and let me tell you it doesn't pay to antagonize—''
At the drab wooden house in which she lived he said good-night
briefly and amiably, but as the taxicab drove off he was
praying "Oh, my God!''