“--but the wise, hard, corseted, old married women like Zilla are worse than any bobbed-haired girl that ever went boldly out into this-here storm of life--and kept her umbrella slid up her sleeve! But rats, you know what Zilla is. How she nags--nags--nags. How she wants everything I can buy her, and a lot that I can’t, and how absolutely unreasonable she is, and when I get sore and try to have it out with her she plays the Perfect Lady so well that even I get fooled and get all tangled up in a lot of ‘Why did you say’s’ and ‘I didn’t mean’s.’ I’ll tell you, Georgie: You know my tastes are pretty fairly simple--in the matter of food, at least. Course, as you’re always complaining, I do like decent cigars--not those Flor de Cabagos you’re smoking--” “That’s all right now! That’s a good two-for. By the way, Paul, did I tell you I decided to practically cut out smok--” “Yes you-- At the same time, if I can’t get what I like, why, I can do without it. I don’t mind sitting down to burnt steak, with canned peaches and store cake for a thrilling little dessert afterwards, but I do draw the line at having to sympathize with Zilla because she’s so rotten bad-tempered that the cook has quit, and she’s been so busy sitting in a dirty lace negligée all afternoon, reading about some brave manly Western hero, that she hasn’t had time to do any cooking. You’re always talking about ‘morals’--meaning monogamy, I suppose. You’ve been the rock of ages to me, all right, but you’re essentially a simp. You--” “Where d’ you get that ‘simp,’ little man? Let me tell you--” “--love to look earnest and inform the world that it’s the ‘duty of responsible business men to be strictly moral, as an example to the community.’ In fact you’re so earnest about morality, old Georgie, that I hate to think how essentially immoral you must be underneath. All right, you can--” “Wait, wait now! What’s--” “--talk about morals all you want to, old thing, but believe me, if it hadn’t been for you and an occasional evening playing the violin to Terrill O’Farrell’s ’cello, and three or four darling girls that let me forget this beastly joke they call ‘respectable life,’ I’d ’ve killed myself years ago. “And business! The roofing business! Roofs for cowsheds! Oh, I don’t mean I haven’t had a lot of fun out of the Game; out of putting it over on the labor unions, and seeing a big check coming in, and the business increasing. But what’s the use of it? You know, my business isn’t distributing roofing--it’s principally keeping my competitors from distributing roofing. Same with you. All we do is cut each other’s throats and make the public pay for it!” “Look here now, Paul! You’re pretty darn near talking socialism!”