He was fonder of Paul Riesling than of any one on earth except himself and his daughter Tinka. They had been classmates, roommates, in the State University, but always he thought of Paul Riesling, with his dark slimness, his precisely parted hair, his nose-glasses, his hesitant speech, his moodiness, his love of music, as a younger brother, to be petted and protected. Paul had gone into his father’s business, after graduation; he was now a wholesaler and small manufacturer of prepared-paper roofing. But Babbitt strenuously believed and lengthily announced to the world of Good Fellows that Paul could have been a great violinist or painter or writer. “Why say, the letters that boy sent me on his trip to the Canadian Rockies, they just absolutely make you see the place as if you were standing there. Believe me, he could have given any of these bloomin’ authors a whale of a run for their money!” Yet on the telephone they said only: “South 343. No, no, no! I said _South_--South 343. Say, operator, what the dickens is the trouble? Can’t you get me South 343? Why certainly they’ll answer. Oh, Hello, 343? Wanta speak Mist’ Riesling, Mist’ Babbitt talking.... ‘Lo, Paul?” “Yuh.” “’S George speaking.” “Yuh.” “How’s old socks?” “Fair to middlin’. How’re you?” “Fine, Paulibus. Well, what do you know?” “Oh, nothing much.” “Where you been keepin’ yourself?” “Oh, just stickin’ round. What’s up, Georgie?” “How ’bout lil lunch’s noon?” “Be all right with me, I guess. Club?” “Yuh. Meet you there twelve-thirty.” “A’ right. Twelve-thirty. S’ long, Georgie.” IV His morning was not sharply marked into divisions. Interwoven with correspondence and advertisement-writing were a thousand nervous details: calls from clerks who were incessantly and hopefully seeking five furnished rooms and bath at sixty dollars a month; advice to Mat Penniman on getting money out of tenants who had no money.