No one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil
Gunch. “Ask Dant’ how Jack Shakespeare
and old Verg’—the guy they named after
me—are gettin’ along, and don’t
they wish they could get into the movie game!”
he blared, and instantly all was mirth. Mrs. Jones
shrieked, and Eddie Swanson desired to know whether
Dante didn’t catch cold with nothing on but
his wreath.
The pleased Dante made humble answer.
But Babbitt—the curst discontent was torturing
him again, and heavily, in the impersonal darkness,
he pondered, “I don’t—We’re
all so flip and think we’re so smart. There’d
be—A fellow like Dante—I wish
I’d read some of his pieces. I don’t
suppose I ever will, now.”
He had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy
cliff and on it, in silhouette against menacing clouds,
a lone and austere figure. He was dismayed by
a sudden contempt for his surest friends. He grasped
Louetta Swanson’s hand, and found the comfort
of human warmth. Habit came, a veteran warrior;
and he shook himself. “What the deuce is
the matter with me, this evening?”
He patted Louetta’s hand, to indicate that he
hadn’t meant anything improper by squeezing
it, and demanded of Frink, “Say, see if you can
get old Dant’ to spiel us some of his poetry.
Talk up to him. Tell him, ’Buena giorna,
senor, com sa va, wie geht’s? Keskersaykersa
a little pome, senor?’”
The lights were switched on; the women sat on the
fronts of their chairs in that determined suspense
whereby a wife indicates that as soon as the present
speaker has finished, she is going to remark brightly
to her husband, “Well, dear, I think per-HAPS
it’s about time for us to be saying good-night.”
For once Babbitt did not break out in blustering efforts
to keep the party going. He had—there
was something he wished to think out—But
the psychical research had started them off again.
("Why didn’t they go home! Why didn’t
they go home!”) Though he was impressed by the
profundity of the statement, he was only half-enthusiastic
when Howard Littlefield lectured, “The United
States is the only nation in which the government
is a Moral Ideal and not just a social arrangement.”
("True—true—weren’t they
ever going home?”) He was usually delighted
to have an “inside view” of the momentous
world of motors but to-night he scarcely listened
to Eddie Swanson’s revelation: “If
you want to go above the Javelin class, the Zeeco is
a mighty good buy. Couple weeks ago, and mind
you, this was a fair, square test, they took a Zeeco
stock touring-car and they slid up the Tonawanda hill
on high, and fellow told me—” ("Zeeco
good boat but—Were they planning to stay
all night?”)
They really were going, with a flutter of “We
did have the best time!”
Most aggressively friendly of all was Babbitt, yet
as he burbled he was reflecting, “I got through
it, but for a while there I didn’t hardly think
I’d last out.” He prepared to taste
that most delicate pleasure of the host: making
fun of his guests in the relaxation of midnight.
As the door closed he yawned voluptuously, chest out,
shoulders wriggling, and turned cynically to his wife.
