Say, old man! I just want to know
can I do you a whaleuva favor? Honest! No
kidding! I know you’re interested in getting
a house, not merely a place where you hang up the
old bonnet but a love-nest for the wife and kiddies—and
maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell
that b-e-y-a-n-t, Miss McGoun) the spud garden.
Say, did you ever stop to think that we’re here
to save you trouble? That’s how we make
a living—folks don’t pay us for our
lovely beauty! Now take a look:
Sit right down at the handsome carved mahogany escritoire
and shoot us in a line telling us just what you want,
and if we can find it we’ll come hopping down
your lane with the good tidings, and if we can’t,
we won’t bother you. To save your time,
just fill out the blank enclosed. On request
will also send blank regarding store properties in
Floral Heights, Silver Grove, Linton, Bellevue, and
all East Side residential districts.
Yours for service,
P.S.—Just a hint of some plums we can pick
for you—some genuine bargains that came
in to-day:
Silver grove.—Cute four-room
California bungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandy shade tree,
swell neighborhood, handy car line. $3700, $780 down
and balance liberal, Babbitt-Thompson terms, cheaper
than rent.
Dorchester.—A corker! Artistic
two-family house, all oak trim, parquet floors, lovely
gas log, big porches, colonial, heated all-weather
garage, a bargain at $11,250.
Dictation over, with its need of sitting and thinking
instead of bustling around and making a noise and
really doing something, Babbitt sat creakily back
in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on Miss McGoun.
He was conscious of her as a girl, of black bobbed
hair against demure cheeks. A longing which was
indistinguishable from loneliness enfeebled him.
While she waited, tapping a long, precise pencil-point
on the desk-tablet, he half identified her with the
fairy girl of his dreams. He imagined their eyes
meeting with terrifying recognition; imagined touching
her lips with frightened reverence and—She
was chirping, “Any more, Mist’ Babbitt?”
He grunted, “That winds it up, I guess,”
and turned heavily away.
For all his wandering thoughts, they had never been
more intimate than this. He often reflected,
“Nev’ forget how old Jake Offutt said a
wise bird never goes love-making in his own office
or his own home. Start trouble. Sure.
But—”
In twenty-three years of married life he had peered
uneasily at every graceful ankle, every soft shoulder;
in thought he had treasured them; but not once had
he hazarded respectability by adventuring. Now,
as he calculated the cost of repapering the Styles
house, he was restless again, discontented about nothing
and everything, ashamed of his discontentment, and
lonely for the fairy girl.
