“Course maybe you might tell her you’d been in Akron and seen me there.”
“Why, sure, you bet! Don’t I have to go look at that candy-store property in Akron? Don’t I? Ain’t it a shame I have to stop off there when I’m so anxious to get home? Ain’t it a regular shame? I’ll say it is! I’ll say it’s a doggone shame!”
“Fine. But for glory hallelujah’s sake don’t go putting any fancy fixings on the story. When men lie they always try to make it too artistic, and that’s why women get suspicious. And— Let’s have a drink, Georgie. I’ve got some gin and a little vermouth.”
The Paul who normally refused a second cocktail took a second now, and a third. He became red-eyed and thick-tongued. He was embarrassingly jocular and salacious.
In the taxicab Babbitt incredulously found tears crowding into his eyes.
II
He had not told Paul of his plan but he did stop at Akron, between trains, for the one purpose of sending to Zilla a post-card with “Had to come here for the day, ran into Paul.” In Zenith he called on her. If for public appearances Zilla was over-coiffed, over-painted, and resolutely corseted, for private misery she wore a filthy blue dressing-gown and torn stockings thrust into streaky pink satin mules. Her face was sunken. She seemed to have but half as much hair as Babbitt remembered, and that half was stringy. She sat in a rocker amid a debris of candy-boxes and cheap magazines, and she sounded dolorous when she did not sound derisive. But Babbitt was exceedingly breezy:
“Well, well, Zil, old dear, having a good loaf while hubby’s away? That’s the idea! I’ll bet a hat Myra never got up till ten, while I was in Chicago. Say, could I borrow your thermos—just dropped in to see if I could borrow your thermos bottle. We’re going to have a toboggan party—want to take some coffee mit. Oh, did you get my card from Akron, saying I’d run into Paul?”
“Yes. What was he doing?”
“How do you mean?” He unbuttoned his overcoat, sat tentatively on the arm of a chair.