At Biddlemeier’s Inn they were unable to get anything to drink. The head-waiter refused to understand who George F. Babbitt was. They sat steaming before a vast mixed grill, and made conversation about baseball. When he tried to hold Ida’s hand she said with bright friendliness, “Careful! That fresh waiter is rubbering.” But they came out into a treacherous summer night, the air lazy and a little moon above transfigured maples.
“Let’s drive some other place, where we can get a drink and dance!” he demanded.
“Sure, some other night. But I promised Ma I’d be home early to-night.”
“Rats! It’s too nice to go home.”
“I’d just love to, but Ma would give me fits.”
He was trembling. She was everything that was young and exquisite. He put his arm about her. She snuggled against his shoulder, unafraid, and he was triumphant. Then she ran down the steps of the Inn, singing, “Come on, Georgie, we’ll have a nice drive and get cool.”
It was a night of lovers. All along the highway into Zenith, under the low and gentle moon, motors were parked and dim figures were clasped in revery. He held out hungry hands to Ida, and when she patted them he was grateful. There was no sense of struggle and transition; he kissed her and simply she responded to his kiss, they two behind the stolid back of the chauffeur.
Her hat fell off, and she broke from his embrace to reach for it.
“Oh, let it be!” he implored.
“Huh? My hat? Not a chance!”