Littlefield asked, in a learned tone, “Do you like it in the Paradiso, Messire?”
“We are very happy on the higher plane, Signor. We are glad that you are studying this great truth of spiritualism,” Dante replied.
The circle moved with an awed creaking of stays and shirtfronts. “Suppose—suppose there were something to this?”
Babbitt had a different worry. “Suppose Chum Frink was really one of these spiritualists! Chum had, for a literary fellow, always seemed to be a Regular Guy; he belonged to the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church and went to the Boosters’ lunches and liked cigars and motors and racy stories. But suppose that secretly— After all, you never could tell about these darn highbrows; and to be an out-and-out spiritualist would be almost like being a socialist!”
No one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil Gunch. “Ask Dant’ how Jack Shakespeare and old Verg’—the guy they named after me—are gettin’ along, and don’t they wish they could get into the movie game!” he blared, and instantly all was mirth. Mrs. Jones shrieked, and Eddie Swanson desired to know whether Dante didn’t catch cold with nothing on but his wreath.
The pleased Dante made humble answer.
But Babbitt—the curst discontent was torturing him again, and heavily, in the impersonal darkness, he pondered, “I don’t— We’re all so flip and think we’re so smart. There’d be— A fellow like Dante— I wish I’d read some of his pieces. I don’t suppose I ever will, now.”
He had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy cliff and on it, in silhouette against menacing clouds, a lone and austere figure. He was dismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends. He grasped Louetta Swanson’s hand, and found the comfort of human warmth. Habit came, a veteran warrior; and he shook himself. “What the deuce is the matter with me, this evening?”
He patted Louetta’s hand, to indicate that he hadn’t meant anything improper by squeezing it, and demanded of Frink, “Say, see if you can get old Dant’ to spiel us some of his poetry. Talk up to him. Tell him, ‘Buena giorna, señor, com sa va, wie geht’s? Keskersaykersa a little pome, señor?’”