III
They were beside the fireless fire-place, in the evening.
"Georgie,'' she said, "you haven't given me the list of your
household expenses while I was away.''
"No, I— Haven't made it out yet.'' Very affably: "Gosh,
we must try to keep down expenses this year.''
"That's so. I don't know where all the money goes to.
I try to economize, but it just seems to evaporate.''
"I suppose I oughtn't to spend so much on cigars. Don't
know but what I'll cut down my smoking, maybe cut it out
entirely. I was thinking of a good way to do it, the other
day: start on these cubeb cigarettes, and they'd kind of disgust
me with smoking.''
"Oh, I do wish you would! It isn't that I care, but honestly,
George, it is so bad for you to smoke so much. Don't
you think you could reduce the amount? And George—
I notice now, when you come home from these lodges and all,
that sometimes you smell of whisky. Dearie, you know I
don't worry so much about the moral side of it, but you have
a weak stomach and you can't stand all this drinking.''
"Weak stomach, hell! I guess I can carry my booze about
as well as most folks!''
"Well, I do think you ought to be careful. Don't you see,
dear, I don't want you to get sick.''
"Sick rats! I'm not a baby! I guess I ain't going to get
sick just because maybe once a week I shoot a highball!
That's the trouble with women. They always exaggerate so.''
"George, I don't think you ought to talk that way when
I'm just speaking for your own good.''
"I know, but gosh all fishhooks, that's the trouble with
women! They're always criticizing and commenting and
bringing things up, and then they say it's `for your own
good'!''
"Why, George, that's not a nice way to talk, to answer me
so short.''
"Well, I didn't mean to answer short, but gosh, talking as
if I was a kindergarten brat, not able to tote one highball
without calling for the St. Mary's ambulance! A fine idea
you must have of me!''
"Oh, it isn't that; it's just—I don't want to see you get
sick and— My, I didn't know it was so late! Don't forget
to give me those household accounts for the time while I was
away.''
"Oh, thunder, what's the use of taking the trouble to make
'em out now? Let's just skip 'em for that period.''
"Why, George Babbitt, in all the years we've been married
we've never failed to keep a complete account of every penny
we've spent!''
"No. Maybe that's the trouble with us.''
"What in the world do you mean?''
"Oh, I don't mean anything, only— Sometimes I get so
darn sick and tired of all this routine and the accounting at
the office and expenses at home and fussing and stewing and
fretting and wearing myself out worrying over a lot of junk
that doesn't really mean a doggone thing, and being so careful
and— Good Lord, what do you think I'm made for? I could
have been a darn good orator, and here I fuss and fret and
worry—''
"Don't you suppose I ever get tired of fussing? I get so
bored with ordering three meals a day, three hundred and
sixty-five days a year, and ruining my eyes over that horrid
sewing-machine, and looking after your clothes and Rone's
and Ted's and Tinka's and everybody's, and the laundry, and
darning socks, and going down to the Piggly Wiggly to market,
and bringing my basket home to save money on the cash-and-carry
and—
everything!''
"Well, gosh,'' with a certain astonishment, "I suppose maybe
you do! But talk about— Here I have to be in the office
every single day, while you can go out all afternoon and see
folks and visit with the neighbors and do any blinkin' thing
you want to!''
"Yes, and a fine lot of good that does me! Just talking
over the same old things with the same old crowd, while you
have all sorts of interesting people coming in to see you at
the office.''
"Interesting! Cranky old dames that want to know why
I haven't rented their dear precious homes for about seven
times their value, and bunch of old crabs panning the everlasting
daylights out of me because they don't receive every
cent of their rentals by three G.M. on the second of the month!
Sure! Interesting! Just as interesting as the small pox!''
"Now, George, I will not have you shouting at me that
way!''
"Well, it gets my goat the way women figure out that a
man doesn't do a darn thing but sit on his chair and have
lovey-dovey conferences with a lot of classy dames and give
'em the glad eye!''
"I guess you manage to give them a glad enough eye when
they do come in.''
"What do you mean? Mean I'm chasing flappers?''
"I should hope not—at your age!''
"Now you look here! You may not believe it— Of course
all you see is fat little Georgie Babbitt. Sure! Handy man
around the house! Fixes the furnace when the furnace-man
doesn't show up, and pays the bills, but dull, awful dull!
Well, you may not believe it, but there's some women that
think old George Babbitt isn't such a bad scout! They think
he's not so bad-looking, not so bad that it hurts anyway, and
he's got a pretty good line of guff, and some even think he
shakes a darn wicked Walkover at dancing!''
"Yes.'' She spoke slowly. "I haven't much doubt that
when I'm away you manage to find people who properly appreciate
you.''
"Well, I just mean—'' he protested, with a sound of denial.
Then he was angered into semi-honesty. "You bet I do! I
find plenty of folks, and doggone nice ones, that don't think
I'm a weak-stomached baby!''
"That's exactly what I was saying! You can run around
with anybody you please, but I'm supposed to sit here and
wait for you. You have the chance to get all sorts of culture
and everything, and I just stay home—''
"Well, gosh almighty, there's nothing to prevent your reading
books and going to lectures and all that junk, is there?''
"George, I told you, I won't have you shouting at me like
that! I don't know what's come over you. You never used
to speak to me in this cranky way.''
"I didn't mean to sound cranky, but gosh, it certainly
makes me sore to get the blame because you don't keep up
with things.''
"I'm going to! Will you help me?''
"Sure. Anything I can do to help you in the culture-grabbing
line—yours to oblige, G. F. Babbitt.''
"Very well then, I want you to go to Mrs. Mudge's New
Thought meeting with me, next Sunday afternoon.''
"Mrs. Who's which?''
"Mrs. Opal Emerson Mudge. The field-lecturer for the
American New Thought League. She's going to speak on
`Cultivating the Sun Spirit' before the League of the Higher
Illumination, at the Thornleigh.''
"Oh, punk! New Thought! Hashed thought with a
poached egg! `Cultivating the—' It sounds like `Why is a
mouse when it spins?' That's a fine spiel for a good Presbyterian
to be going to, when you can hear Doc Drew!''
"Reverend Drew is a scholar and a pulpit orator and all
that, but he hasn't got the Inner Ferment, as Mrs. Mudge
calls it; he hasn't any inspiration for the New Era. Women
need inspiration now. So I want you to come, as you
promised.''
