In the new Cavendish Apartments, Babbitt had a flat which he had been holding for Sidney Finkelstein, but at the thought of driving beside this agreeable woman he threw over his friend Finkelstein, and with a note of gallantry he proclaimed, “I’ll let you see what I can do!”
He dusted the seat of the car for her, and twice he risked death in showing off his driving.
“You do know how to handle a car!” she said.
He liked her voice. There was, he thought, music in it and a hint of culture, not a bouncing giggle like Louetta Swanson’s.
He boasted, “You know, there’s a lot of these fellows that are so scared and drive so slow that they get in everybody’s way. The safest driver is a fellow that knows how to handle his machine and yet isn’t scared to speed up when it’s necessary, don’t you think so?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I bet you drive like a wiz.”
“Oh, no— I mean—not really. Of course, we had a car— I mean, before my husband passed on—and I used to make believe drive it, but I don’t think any woman ever learns to drive like a man.”
“Well, now, there’s some mighty good woman drivers.”
“Oh, of course, these women that try to imitate men, and play golf and everything, and ruin their complexions and spoil their hands!”