“That’s the bird Horace met when he was in China—official or something Horace had to deal with to get some concession he wanted. Guess we’ll have to go.”
“You go along, Jimmie, and let me stay at home, won’t you?” Mimi asked, “I’m fed up on dinners and parties—you see the same people and hear the same things and drink the same liquors at all of them.”
“But Horace and the Holy Behemoth, Eulalia, will get sore if you don’t show up, Pet.”
“They’ll get over it. I really am sick of the same old routine, there’s never anything new and it all seems so futile, wasting so much time—”
“That comes from reading these stories by fellows like Dreiser and Sinclair Lewis—I told you they’d make you unhappy. That’s why I leave those birds alone they’re always picking flaws in the best civilization the world’s ever seen—”
“Bathtubs and radio and big business, eh?” Mimi murmured softly, perhaps a shade too softly.
“Yes—bathtubs—and radio and all the other things you sneer at—but just the same you’d be darned unhappy and uncomfortable if you didn’t have these same benefits this civilization’s brought you,” snapped Jimmie testily.
“Oh, well, if you’re going to get angry about it, I’ll go. Only, please don’t raise your voice so—remember the maid is probably listening,” Mimi tried to calm him as he rose from the table.
“Who’s shouting?” Jimmie demanded. “And what if I do? This is my house, isn’t it, and haven’t I got a right to shout in my own house, if I want to?”