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.
