On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D., in a strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark red tapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spattered clay, and the roof red-tiled.  Littlefield was the Great Scholar of the neighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies, cooking, and motors.  He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College, and a Doctor of Philosophy in economics of Yale.  He was the employment-manager and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction Company.  He could, on ten hours’ notice, appear before the board of aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, with figures all in rows and with precedents from Poland and New Zealand, that the street-car company loved the Public and yearned over its employees; that all its stock was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever it desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values, and help the poor by lowering rents.  All his acquaintances turned to Littlefield when they desired to know the date of the battle of Saragossa, the definition of the word “sabotage,” the future of the German mark, the translation of “hinc illae lachrimae,” or the number of products of coal tar.  He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat up till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government reports, or skimming (with amusement at the author’s mistakes) the latest volumes of chemistry, archeology, and ichthyology.

But Littlefield’s great value was as a spiritual example.  Despite his strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian and as firm a Republican as George F. Babbitt.  He confirmed the business men in the faith.  Where they knew only by passionate instinct that their system of industry and manners was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved it to them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed radicals.

Babbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor of such a savant, and in Ted’s intimacy with Eunice Littlefield.  At sixteen Eunice was interested in no statistics save those regarding the ages and salaries of motion-picture stars, but—­as Babbitt definitively put it—­“she was her father’s daughter.”

The difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau and a really fine character like Littlefield was revealed in their appearances.  Doppelbrau was disturbingly young for a man of forty-eight.  He wore his derby on the back of his head, and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless laughter.  But Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two.  He was tall, broad, thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds of his long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness; he puffed and rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa key shone against a spotty black vest; he smelled of old pipes; he was altogether funereal and archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing of bathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity.