Babbitt recovered from the feeling of being boiled. He won at bridge. He was again able to endure Vergil Gunch’s inexorable heartiness. But he pictured loafing with Paul Riesling beside a lake in Maine. It was as overpowering and imaginative as homesickness. He had never seen Maine, yet he beheld the shrouded mountains, the tranquil lake of evening. “That boy Paul’s worth all these ballyhooing highbrows put together,” he muttered; and, “I’d like to get away from—everything.”
Even Louetta Swanson did not rouse him.
Mrs. Swanson was pretty and pliant. Babbitt was not an analyst of women, except as to their tastes in Furnished Houses to Rent. He divided them into Real Ladies, Working Women, Old Cranks, and Fly Chickens. He mooned over their charms but he was of opinion that all of them (save the women of his own family) were “different” and “mysterious.” Yet he had known by instinct that Louetta Swanson could be approached. Her eyes and lips were moist. Her face tapered from a broad forehead to a pointed chin, her mouth was thin but strong and avid, and between her brows were two outcurving and passionate wrinkles. She was thirty, perhaps, or younger. Gossip had never touched her, but every man naturally and instantly rose to flirtatiousness when he spoke to her, and every woman watched her with stilled blankness.
Between games, sitting on the davenport, Babbitt spoke to her with the requisite gallantry, that sonorous Floral Heights gallantry which is not flirtation but a terrified flight from it:
“You’re looking like a new soda-fountain to-night, Louetta.”
“Am I?”
“Ole Eddie kind of on the rampage.”
“Yes. I get so sick of it.”
“Well, when you get tired of hubby, you can run off with Uncle George.”
“If I ran away— Oh, well—”