With a certain awe Babbitt and Chum Frink called on Eathorne for a meeting of the Sunday School Advisory Committee; with uneasy stillness they followed a uniformed maid through catacombs of reception-rooms to the library. It was as unmistakably the library of a solid old banker as Eathorne’s side-whiskers were the side-whiskers of a solid old banker. The books were most of them Standard Sets, with the correct and traditional touch of dim blue, dim gold, and glossy calf-skin. The fire was exactly correct and traditional; a small, quiet, steady fire, reflected by polished fire-irons. The oak desk was dark and old and altogether perfect; the chairs were gently supercilious. Eathorne’s inquiries as to the healths of Mrs. Babbitt, Miss Babbitt, and the Other Children were softly paternal, but Babbitt had nothing with which to answer him. It was indecent to think of using the “How’s tricks, ole socks?” which gratified Vergil Gunch and Frink and Howard Littlefield--men who till now had seemed successful and urbane. Babbitt and Frink sat politely, and politely did Eathorne observe, opening his thin lips just wide enough to dismiss the words, “Gentlemen, before we begin our conference--you may have felt the cold in coming here--so good of you to save an old man the journey--shall we perhaps have a whisky toddy?” So well trained was Babbitt in all the conversation that befits a Good Fellow that he almost disgraced himself with “Rather than make trouble, and always providin’ there ain’t any enforcement officers hiding in the waste-basket--” The words died choking in his throat. He bowed in flustered obedience. So did Chum Frink. Eathorne rang for the maid. The modern and luxurious Babbitt had never seen any one ring for a servant in a private house, except during meals. Himself, in hotels, had rung for bell-boys, but in the house you didn’t hurt Matilda’s feelings; you went out in the hall and shouted for her. Nor had he, since prohibition, known any one to be casual about drinking. It was extraordinary merely to sip his toddy and not cry, “Oh, maaaaan, this hits me right where I live!” And always, with the ecstasy of youth meeting greatness, he marveled, “That little fuzzy-face there, why, he could make me or break me! If he told my banker to call my loans--! Gosh! That quarter-sized squirt! And looking like he hadn’t got a single bit of hustle to him! I wonder-- Do we Boosters throw too many fits about pep?” From this thought he shuddered away, and listened devoutly to Eathorne’s ideas on the advancement of the Sunday School, which were very clear and very bad. Diffidently Babbitt outlined his own suggestions: