“Lord, I don’t know whether I can do it. To work under that gas-bag, with his fool pieces about boozers—”
“They weren’t so bad,” protested Leora.
“Bad? Why, he’s probably the worst poet that ever lived, and he certainly knows less about epidemiology than I thought any one man could ever learn, all by himself. But when it comes to this—what was it Clif Clawson used to call it?—by the way, wonder what’s ever become of Clif; haven’t heard from him for a couple o’ years—when it comes to this ‘overpowering Christian Domesticity’— Oh, let’s hunt for a blind-pig and sit around with the nice restful burglars.”
She insisted, “I thought his poems were kind of cute.”
“Cute! What a word!”
“It’s no worse than the cuss-words you’re always using! But the cornet yowling by that awful oldest daughter— Ugh!”
“Well, now she played darn’ well!”
“Martin, the cornet is the kind of an instrument my brother would play. And you so superior about the doctor’s poetry and my saying ‘cute’! You’re just as much a backwoods hick as I am, and maybe more so!”
“Why, gee, Leora, I never knew you to get sore about nothing before! And can’t you understand how important— You see, a man like Pickerbaugh makes all public health work simply ridiculous by his circusing and his ignorance. If he said that fresh air was a good thing, instead of making me open my windows it’d make me or any other reasonable person close ’em. And to use the word ‘science’ in those flop-eared limericks or whatever you call ’em—it’s sacrilege!”
“Well, if you want to know, Martin Arrowsmith, I’ll have no more of these high jinks with that Orchid girl! Practically hugging her when you came downstairs, and then mooning at her all evening! I don’t mind your cursing and being cranky and even getting drunk, in a reasonable sort of way, but ever since the lunch when you told me and that Fox woman, ‘I hope you girls won’t mind, but I just happen to remember that I’m engaged to both of you’— You’re mine, and I won’t have any trespassers. I’m a cavewoman, and you’d better learn it, and as for that Orchid, with her simper and her stroking your arm and her great big absurd feet— Orchid! She’s no orchid! She’s a bachelor’s button!”