“That’s a fact, they haven’t,” he breathed, admiring her slenderness and the absorbed, airy way in which she looked toward the hill, chin lifted, lips smiling.  “Well, guess I’d better telephone the plumbers, so they’ll get on the job first thing in the morning.”

When he had telephoned, making it conspicuously authoritative and gruff and masculine, he looked doubtful, and sighed, “S’pose I’d better be—­”

“Oh, you must have that cup of tea first!”

“Well, it would go pretty good, at that.”

It was luxurious to loll in a deep green rep chair, his legs thrust out before him, to glance at the black Chinese telephone stand and the colored photograph of Mount Vernon which he had always liked so much, while in the tiny kitchen—­so near—­Mrs. Judique sang “My Creole Queen.”  In an intolerable sweetness, a contentment so deep that he was wistfully discontented, he saw magnolias by moonlight and heard plantation darkies crooning to the banjo.  He wanted to be near her, on pretense of helping her, yet he wanted to remain in this still ecstasy.  Languidly he remained.

When she bustled in with the tea he smiled up at her.  “This is awfully nice!” For the first time, he was not fencing; he was quietly and securely friendly; and friendly and quiet was her answer:  “It’s nice to have you here.  You were so kind, helping me to find this little home.”

They agreed that the weather would soon turn cold.  They agreed that prohibition was prohibitive.  They agreed that art in the home was cultural.  They agreed about everything.  They even became bold.  They hinted that these modern young girls, well, honestly, their short skirts were short.  They were proud to find that they were not shocked by such frank speaking.  Tanis ventured, “I know you’ll understand—­I mean—­I don’t quite know how to say it, but I do think that girls who pretend they’re bad by the way they dress really never go any farther.  They give away the fact that they haven’t the instincts of a womanly woman.”

Remembering Ida Putiak, the manicure girl, and how ill she had used him, Babbitt agreed with enthusiasm; remembering how ill all the world had used him, he told of Paul Riesling, of Zilla, of Seneca Doane, of the strike: 

“See how it was?  Course I was as anxious to have those beggars licked to a standstill as anybody else, but gosh, no reason for not seeing their side.  For a fellow’s own sake, he’s got to be broad-minded and liberal, don’t you think so?”

“Oh, I do!” Sitting on the hard little couch, she clasped her hands beside her, leaned toward him, absorbed him; and in a glorious state of being appreciated he proclaimed: 

“So I up and said to the fellows at the club, ‘Look here,’ I—­”

“Do you belong to the Union Club?  I think it’s—­”

“No; the Athletic.  Tell you:  Course they’re always asking me to join the Union, but I always say, ‘No, sir!  Nothing doing!’ I don’t mind the expense but I can’t stand all the old fogies.”