| When they returned he had to endure the patronage of the young soda-clerks. They were as damply friendly as Miss Sonntag was dryly hostile. They called him УOld GeorgieФ and shouted, УCome on now, sport; shake a legФ... boys in belted coats, pimply boys, as young as Ted and as flabby as chorus-men, but powerful to dance and to mind the phonograph and smoke Salem Cigarettes and patronize Tanis. He tried to be one of them; he cried УGood work, Pete!Ф but his voice creaked. Tanis apparently enjoyed the companionship of the dancing darlings; she bridled to their bland flirtation and casually kissed them at the end of each dance. Babbitt hated her, for the moment. He saw her as middle-aged. He studied the wrinkles in the softness of her throat, the slack flesh beneath her chin. The taut muscles of her youth were loose and drooping. Between dances she sat in the largest chair, waving her cigarettes, summoning her callow admirers to come and talk to her. (УShe thinks sheТs a blooming queen!Ф growled Babbitt.) She chanted to Miss Sonntag, УIsnТt my little studio sweet?Ф (УStudio, rats! ItТs a plain old-maid-and-chow-dog flat! Oh, God, I wish I was home! I wonder if I canТt make a getaway now?Ф) His vision grew blurred, however, as he applied himself to Healey HansonТs raw but vigorous whisky. He blended with the Bunch. He began to rejoice that Carrie Nork and Pete, the most nearly intelligent of the nimble youths, seemed to like him; and it was enormously important to win over the surly older man, who proved to be a railway clerk named Fulton Bemis. |