“Good?  Why say, they’re running grand opera right now!  I guess maybe you’d like that.”

“Eh?  Eh?  Went to the opera once in London.  Covent Garden sort of thing.  Shocking!  No, I was wondering if there was a good cinema-movie.”

Babbitt was sitting down, hitching his chair over, shouting, “Movie?  Say, Sir Gerald, I supposed of course you had a raft of dames waiting to lead you out to some soiree—­”

“God forbid!”

“—­but if you haven’t, what do you say you and me go to a movie?  There’s a peach of a film at the Grantham:  Bill Hart in a bandit picture.”

“Right-o!  Just a moment while I get my coat.”

Swollen with greatness, slightly afraid lest the noble blood of Nottingham change its mind and leave him at any street corner, Babbitt paraded with Sir Gerald Doak to the movie palace and in silent bliss sat beside him, trying not to be too enthusiastic, lest the knight despise his adoration of six-shooters and broncos.  At the end Sir Gerald murmured, “Jolly good picture, this.  So awfully decent of you to take me.  Haven’t enjoyed myself so much for weeks.  All these Hostesses—­they never let you go to the cinema!”

“The devil you say!” Babbitt’s speech had lost the delicate refinement and all the broad A’s with which he had adorned it, and become hearty and natural.  “Well, I’m tickled to death you liked it, Sir Gerald.”

They crawled past the knees of fat women into the aisle; they stood in the lobby waving their arms in the rite of putting on overcoats.  Babbitt hinted, “Say, how about a little something to eat?  I know a place where we could get a swell rarebit, and we might dig up a little drink—­that is, if you ever touch the stuff.”

“Rather!  But why don’t you come to my room?  I’ve some Scotch—­not half bad.”

“Oh, I don’t want to use up all your hootch.  It’s darn nice of you, but—­You probably want to hit the hay.”

Sir Gerald was transformed.  He was beefily yearning.  “Oh really, now; I haven’t had a decent evening for so long!  Having to go to all these dances.  No chance to discuss business and that sort of thing.  Do be a good chap and come along.  Won’t you?”

“Will I?  You bet!  I just thought maybe—­Say, by golly, it does do a fellow good, don’t it, to sit and visit about business conditions, after he’s been to these balls and masquerades and banquets and all that society stuff.  I often feel that way in Zenith.  Sure, you bet I’ll come.”

“That’s awfully nice of you.”  They beamed along the street.  “Look here, old chap, can you tell me, do American cities always keep up this dreadful social pace?  All these magnificent parties?”

“Go on now, quit your kidding!  Gosh, you with court balls and functions and everything—­”

“No, really, old chap!  Mother and I—­Lady Doak, I should say, we usually play a hand of bezique and go to bed at ten.  Bless my soul, I couldn’t keep up your beastly pace!  And talking!  All your American women, they know so much—­culture and that sort of thing.  This Mrs. McKelvey—­your friend—­”