As he comes from Nottingham, a favorite haunt of Robin Hood, though now, we are informed by Lord Doak, a live modern city of 275,573 inhabitants, and important lace as well as other industries, we like to think that perhaps through his veins runs some of the blood, both virile red and bonny blue, of that earlier lord o’ the good greenwood, the roguish Robin.
The lovely Mrs. McKelvey never was more fascinating than last evening in her black net gown relieved by dainty bands of silver and at her exquisite waist a glowing cluster of Aaron Ward roses.
Babbitt said bravely,
“I hope they don’t invite us to meet this Lord Doak guy.
Darn sight rather just have a nice quiet little dinner with Charley and the Missus.”
At the Zenith Athletic Club they discussed it amply.
“I s’pose we’ll have to call McKelvey
‘Lord Chaz’ from now on,” said Sidney Finkelstein.
“It beats all get-out,” meditated that man of data, Howard Littlefield, “how hard it is for some people to get things straight.
Here they call this fellow ‘Lord Doak’ when it ought to be ‘Sir Gerald.’”
Babbitt marvelled,
“Is that a fact!
Well, well!
‘Sir Gerald,’ eh?
That’s what you call um, eh?
Well, sir, I’m glad to know that.”
Later he informed his salesmen,
“It’s funnier ‘n a goat the way some folks that, just because they happen to lay up a big wad, go entertaining famous foreigners, don’t have any more idea ‘n a rabbit how to address ‘em so’s to make ‘em feel at home!”
That evening, as he was driving home, he passed McKelvey’s limousine and saw Sir Gerald, a large, ruddy, pop-eyed, Teutonic Englishman whose dribble of yellow mustache gave him an aspect sad and doubtful.
Babbitt drove on slowly, oppressed by futility.
He had a sudden, unexplained, and horrible conviction that the McKelveys were laughing at him.
He betrayed his depression by the violence with which he informed his wife,
“Folks that really tend to business haven’t got the time to waste on a bunch like the McKelveys.
This society stuff is like any other hobby; if you devote yourself to it, you get on.
But I like to have a chance to visit with you and the children instead of all this idiotic chasing round.”
They did not speak of the McKelveys again. V
It was a shame, at this worried time, to have to think about the Overbrooks.
Ed Overbrook was a classmate of Babbitt who had been a failure.
He had a large family and a feeble insurance business out in the suburb of Dorchester.
He was gray and thin and unimportant. He had always been gray and thin and unimportant.
He was the person whom, in any group, you forgot to introduce, then introduced with extra enthusiasm.
He had admired Babbitt’s good-fellowship in college, had admired ever since his power in real estate, his beautiful house and wonderful clothes.
It pleased Babbitt, though it bothered him with a sense of responsibility.
At the class-dinner he had seen poor Overbrook, in a shiny blue serge business-suit, being diffident in a corner with three other failures.
He had gone over and been cordial:
“Why, hello, young Ed!
I hear you’re writing all the insurance in Dorchester now.
Bully work!”
They recalled the good old days when Overbrook used to write poetry.
Overbrook embarrassed him by blurting,
“Say, Georgie, I hate to think of how we been drifting apart.
I wish you and Mrs. Babbitt would come to dinner some night.”
Babbitt boomed, “Fine!
Sure!
Just let me know.
And the wife and I want to have you at the house.”
He forgot it, but unfortunately Ed Overbrook did not.
Repeatedly he telephoned to Babbitt, inviting him to dinner.
“Might as well go and get it over,” Babbitt groaned to his wife.
“But don’t it simply amaze you the way the poor fish doesn’t know the first thing about social etiquette?