Ted was leaning back, smoking a cigarette without reproof.
He was, for the moment, sharing the high thin air of Babbitt’s speculation as though he were Paul Riesling or even Dr. Howard Littlefield.
He hinted:
“Well, what do you think then, Dad?
Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I could go off to China or some peppy place, and study engineering or something by mail?”
“No, and I’ll tell you why, son.
I’ve found out it’s a mighty nice thing to be able to say you’re a B.A.
Some client that doesn’t know what you are and thinks you’re just a plug business man, he gets to shooting off his mouth about economics or literature or foreign trade conditions, and you just ease in something like,
‘When I was in college—course I got my B.A. in sociology and all that junk—’ Oh, it puts an awful crimp in their style!
But there wouldn’t be any class to saying
‘I got the degree of Stamp-licker from the Bezuzus Mail-order University!’
You see—My dad was a pretty good old coot, but he never had much style to him, and I had to work darn hard to earn my way through college.
Well, it’s been worth it, to be able to associate with the finest gentlemen in Zenith, at the clubs and so on, and I wouldn’t want you to drop out of the gentlemen class—the class that are just as red-blooded as the Common People but still have power and personality.
It would kind of hurt me if you did that, old man!”
“I know, Dad!
Sure! All right. I’ll stick to it.
Say! Gosh!
Gee whiz!
I forgot all about those kids I was going to take to the chorus rehearsal.
I’ll have to duck!”
“But you haven’t done all your home-work.”
“Do it first thing in the morning.”
“Well—”
Six times in the past sixty days Babbitt had stormed,
“You will not ‘do it first thing in the morning’!
You’ll do it right now!” but to-night he said,
“Well, better hustle,” and his smile was the rare shy radiance he kept for Paul Riesling. IV
“Ted’s a good boy,” he said to Mrs. Babbitt.
“Oh, he is!”
“Who’s these girls he’s going to pick up?
Are they nice decent girls?”
“I don’t know.
Oh dear, Ted never tells me anything any more.
I don’t understand what’s come over the children of this generation.
I used to have to tell Papa and Mama everything, but seems like the children to-day have just slipped away from all control.”
“I hope they’re decent girls.
Course Ted’s no longer a kid, and I wouldn’t want him to, uh, get mixed up and everything.”
“George: I wonder if you oughtn’t to take him aside and tell him about—Things!”
She blushed and lowered her eyes.
“Well, I don’t know.
Way I figure it, Myra, no sense suggesting a lot of Things to a boy’s mind.
Think up enough devilment by himself.
But I wonder—It’s kind of a hard question.
Wonder what Littlefield thinks about it?”
“Course Papa agrees with you.
He says all this—Instruction is—He says ‘tisn’t decent.”
“Oh, he does, does he!
Well, let me tell you that whatever Henry T. Thompson thinks—about morals, I mean, though course you can’t beat the old duffer—”
“Why, what a way to talk of Papa!”
“—simply can’t beat him at getting in on the ground floor of a deal, but let me tell you whenever he springs any ideas about higher things and education, then I know I think just the opposite.