It was a pleasure to have a harmless human being to deal with.
I spoke quietly, so that Blumenthal could not catch much.
I talked more easily so.
It was bad enough to have him sitting behind me.
We pulled up.
I got out and looked at my enemy steadily.
"You must admit anyway that the car runs like butter, Herr Blumenthal."
"Why talk of butter, young man," he countered with a curious friendliness, "when the tax eats it all?
The car costs too much in tax.
You told me as much."
"Herr Blumenthal," said I in an effort to fix the tone, "you are a businessman, I can speak plainly to you.
That isn't a tax, it's an investment.
Tell me, what is it a business most wants to-day?
You know very well—not capital, as in the old days: it wants credit.
And how does one get it?
By putting a good face on it.
A Cadillac now is solid and smart, comfortable but not old-fashioned—healthy middle class—it's a living advertisement for any business."
Blumenthal turned with amusement to his wife.
"He has a Jewish head, eh?
Young man," said he then, still in a familiar tone, "the best advertisement for solidity to-day is a shabby suit and a bus ticket.
If we two had the money that is still unpaid for all the smart cars there are flitting about, we could sit down and rest quietly.
Take it from me.
In confidence."
I looked at him suspiciously.
What was he up to now, with his friendliness?
Or had the presence of his wife damped his fighting spirit?
I decided to fire a big gun.
"A Cadillac like this is a very different proposition from an Essex, for example, isn't it so, Frau Blumenthal?
Young Meyer of Meyer and Son drives one, but I would not take as a gift any of these loud red sleighs—"
I heard Blumenthal snort, and went on quickly:
"Besides the colour here suits you so well, madam—soft cobalt blue with blond—"
I saw Blumenthal suddenly grinning like a cageful of monkeys.
"Meyer and Son; shrewd, shrewd—" he groaned. "And now flattery—flattery—"
I glanced at him. I could not believe my eyes; it was right.
At once I struck again in the same vein: "Herr Blumenthal, you stop me if I go wrong.
To a woman flattery is not flattery.
It is a compliment, which unfortunately in these miserable days has become all too rare.
A woman is not a piece of steel furniture; she is a flower—she does not ask for reality; she wants the warm, gay sun of flattery.
It is better to say something pretty to her every day, than to slave grimly for her all your life.
Take it from me.
Also in confidence.
And anyway what I said was not flattery, but plain scientific fact. Blue does go with blond."
"Well roared, lion," said Blumenthal, beaming. "Look here, Herr Lohkamp!
I know I can easily knock you down another thousand marks—"
I stepped back a pace.
Wily devil, thought I; now for the expected blow.
I saw myself already wandering through life a total abstainer, and cast the look of a martyred young deer at Frau Blumenthal.
"But, Father—" said she.
"Now, Mother," he replied. "What I say is, I could—but I won't.
It has given me pleasure as a businessman, the way you have worked.