Why, I’ve never had anybody speak to me that way in all my life!
I was so astonished I just turned to him and said—I thought there must be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant,
‘Were you speaking to me?’ and he went on and bellowed at me,
‘Yes, I was!
You’re keeping the whole car from starting!’ he said, and then I saw he was one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and so I stopped and looked right at him, and I said,
‘I—beg—your—pardon, I am not doing anything of the kind,’ I said, ‘it’s the people ahead of me, who won’t move up,’ I said, ‘and furthermore, let me tell you, young man, that you’re a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,’ I said, ‘and you’re no gentleman!
I certainly intend to report you, and we’ll see,’ I said, ‘whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum that chooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I’d thank you,’ I said, ‘to keep your filthy abuse to yourself.’
And then I waited for Paul to show he was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood there and pretended he hadn’t heard a word, and so I said to him,
‘Well,’ I said—”
“Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!” Paul groaned. “We all know I’m a mollycoddle, and you’re a tender bud, and let’s let it go at that.”
“Let it go?”
Zilla’s face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was a dagger of corroded brass.
She was full of the joy of righteousness and bad temper.
She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exulted in the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue.
“Let it go?
If people knew how many things I’ve let go—”
“Oh, quit being such a bully.”
“Yes, a fine figure you’d cut if I didn’t bully you!
You’d lie abed till noon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight!
You’re born lazy, and you’re born shiftless, and you’re born cowardly, Paul Riesling—”
“Oh, now, don’t say that, Zilla; you don’t mean a word of it!” protested Mrs. Babbitt.
“I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!”
“Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!”
Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy.
She was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so—at first.
She was placid and puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and tight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked.
“The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!”
“Poor Paul is right!
We’d both be poor, we’d be in the poorhouse, if I didn’t jazz him up!”
“Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul’s been working all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boys could run off by themselves.
I’ve been coaxing George to go up to Maine ahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we come, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get away and join him.”
At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out of impassivity.
He rubbed his fingers.
His hands twitched.
Zilla bayed, “Yes!
You’re lucky!
You can let George go, and not have to watch him.
Fat old Georgie!
Never peeps at another woman!
Hasn’t got the spunk!”
“The hell I haven’t!”
Babbitt was fervently defending his priceless immorality when Paul interrupted him—and Paul looked dangerous.
He rose quickly; he said gently to Zilla:
“I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts.”
“Yes, I do!”
“Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it—There hasn’t been a time in the last ten years when I haven’t found some nice little girl to comfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probably continue to deceive you.
It isn’t hard.
You’re so stupid.”
Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in her slaver of abuse.
Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed.