“Hurray! George is peeved!” snickered Sidney Finkelstein, while a grin went round the table. Gunch revealed the shocking truth: He had seen Babbitt coming out of a motion-picture theater--at noon! They kept it up. With a hundred variations, a hundred guffaws, they said that he had gone to the movies during business-hours. He didn’t so much mind Gunch, but he was annoyed by Sidney Finkelstein, that brisk, lean, red-headed explainer of jokes. He was bothered, too, by the lump of ice in his glass of water. It was too large; it spun round and burned his nose when he tried to drink. He raged that Finkelstein was like that lump of ice. But he won through; he kept up his banter till they grew tired of the superlative jest and turned to the great problems of the day. He reflected, “What’s the matter with me to-day? Seems like I’ve got an awful grouch. Only they talk so darn much. But I better steer careful and keep my mouth shut.” As they lighted their cigars he mumbled, “Got to get back,” and on a chorus of “If you _will_ go spending your mornings with lady ushers at the movies!” he escaped. He heard them giggling. He was embarrassed. While he was most bombastically agreeing with the coat-man that the weather was warm, he was conscious that he was longing to run childishly with his troubles to the comfort of the fairy child. III He kept Miss McGoun after he had finished dictating. He searched for a topic which would warm her office impersonality into friendliness. “Where you going on your vacation?” he purred. “I think I’ll go up-state to a farm do you want me to have the Siddons lease copied this afternoon?” “Oh, no hurry about it.... I suppose you have a great time when you get away from us cranks in the office.” She rose and gathered her pencils. “Oh, nobody’s cranky here I think I can get it copied after I do the letters.” She was gone. Babbitt utterly repudiated the view that he had been trying to discover how approachable was Miss McGoun. “Course! knew there was nothing doing!” he said. IV Eddie Swanson, the motor-car agent who lived across the street from Babbitt, was giving a Sunday supper. His wife Louetta, young Louetta who loved jazz in music and in clothes and laughter, was at her wildest. She cried, “We’ll have a real party!” as she received the guests. Babbitt had uneasily felt that to many men she might be alluring; now he admitted that to himself she was overwhelmingly alluring. Mrs. Babbitt had never quite approved of Louetta; Babbitt was glad that she was not here this evening. He insisted on helping Louetta in the kitchen: taking the chicken croquettes from the warming-oven, the lettuce sandwiches from the ice-box. He held her hand, once, and she depressingly didn’t notice it. She caroled, “You’re a good little mother’s-helper, Georgie. Now trot in with the tray and leave it on the side-table.”