rch and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them
he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship.
These authors--and he supposed they were famous ones, too--did not seem
to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget
his troubles. He sighed. He noted a book, "The Three Black Pennies,"
by Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an
adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting--detectives sneaking up on
the old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped
down-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:

"A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly
wooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already
stamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with
patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening
underbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above
the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening. Howat Penny,
standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the
shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He
had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day
his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,
permeating him...."

There it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid
down the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the
house were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the
refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the
window. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire
screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire. The whole world was
abnormal. While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to
bed. Silence thickened in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his
respectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the
house, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming "Silver Threads
among the Gold." He casually considered, "Might call up Paul." Then he
remembered. He saw Paul in a jailbird's uniform, but while he agonized
he didn't believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this
fog-enchanted evening.

If she were here Myra would be hinting, "Isn't it late, Georgie?" He
tramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom. Fog hid the house now. The
world was uncreated, a chaos without turmoil or desire.

Through the mist came a man at so f