Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous, if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to the Revelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who was the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seized Zilla’s shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face, and his voice was cruel:
“I’ve had enough of all this damn nonsense! I’ve known you for twenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to take your disappointments out on Paul. You’re not wicked. You’re worse. You’re a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God ever made. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of being a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of. Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask your permission to go with me? You act like you were a combination of Queen Victoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can’t you see how people snicker at you, and sneer at you?”
Zilla was sobbing, “I’ve never— I’ve never—nobody ever talked to me like this in all my life!”
“No, but that’s the way they talk behind your back! Always! They say you’re a scolding old woman. Old, by God!”
That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. But Babbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful official in charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that he alone could handle this case.
Zilla writhed. She begged, “Oh, they don’t!”
“They certainly do!”
“I’ve been a bad woman! I’m terribly sorry! I’ll kill myself! I’ll do anything. Oh, I’ll— What do you want?”
She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseur of scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic, egoistic humility.
“I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me,” Babbitt demanded.