t people
on earth." That evening he had sulkily come home and poked about in
front of the house, chipping off the walk the ice-clots, like fossil
footprints, made by the steps of passers-by during the recent snow.
Howard Littlefield came up snuffling.

"Still a widower, George?"

"Yump. Cold again to-night."

"What do you hear from the wife?"

"She's feeling fine, but her sister is still pretty sick."

"Say, better come in and have dinner with us to-night, George."

"Oh--oh, thanks. Have to go out."

Suddenly he could not endure Littlefield's recitals of the more
interesting statistics about totally uninteresting problems. He scraped
at the walk and grunted.

Sam Doppelbrau appeared.

"Evenin', Babbitt. Working hard?"

"Yuh, lil exercise."

"Cold enough for you to-night?"

"Well, just about."

"Still a widower?"

"Uh-huh."

"Say, Babbitt, while she's away--I know you don't care much for
booze-fights, but the Missus and I'd be awfully glad if you could come
in some night. Think you could stand a good cocktail for once?"

"Stand it? Young fella, I bet old Uncle George can mix the best cocktail
in these United States!"

"Hurray! That's the way to talk! Look here: There's some folks coming
to the house to-night, Louetta Swanson and some other live ones, and I'm
going to open up a bottle of pre-war gin, and maybe we'll dance a while.
Why don't you drop in and jazz it up a little, just for a change?"

"Well--What time they coming?"

He was at Sam Doppelbrau's at nine. It was the third time he had entered
the house. By ten he was calling Mr. Doppelbrau "Sam, old hoss."

At eleven they all drove out to the Old Farm Inn. Babbitt sat in the
back of Doppelbrau's car with Louetta Swanson. Once he had timorously
tried to make love to her. Now he did not try; he merely made love; and
Louetta dropped her head on his shoulder, told him what a nagger Eddie
was, and accepted Babbitt as a decent and well-trained libertine.

With the assistance of Tanis's Bunch, the Doppelbraus, and other
companions in forgetfulness, there was not an evening for two weeks when
he did not return home late and shaky. With his other faculties blurred
he yet had the motorist's gift of being able to drive when he could
scarce walk; of slowing down at corners and allowing for approaching
cars. He came wambling into the house. If Verona and Kenneth Escott were
about, he got past them with a hasty greeting, horribly aware of their
leve