Arnold, this is my old-acquaintance, George Babbitt."

"Pleasmeech," growled Babbitt, while she gurgled, "Oh, I'm very pleased
to meet any friend of Mr. Riesling's, I'm sure."

Babbitt demanded, "Be back there later this evening, Paul? I'll drop
down and see you."

"No, better--We better lunch together to-morrow."

"All right, but I'll see you to-night, too, Paul. I'll go down to your
hotel, and I'll wait for you!"




CHAPTER XX

I

HE sat smoking with the piano-salesman, clinging to the warm refuge of
gossip, afraid to venture into thoughts of Paul. He was the more affable
on the surface as secretly he became more apprehensive, felt more
hollow. He was certain that Paul was in Chicago without Zilla's
knowledge, and that he was doing things not at all moral and secure.
When the salesman yawned that he had to write up his orders, Babbitt
left him, left the hotel, in leisurely calm. But savagely he said
"Campbell Inn!" to the taxi-driver. He sat agitated on the slippery
leather seat, in that chill dimness which smelled of dust and perfume
and Turkish cigarettes. He did not heed the snowy lake-front, the dark