As she observed to Petticoat, one day, in exasperation, “There are only two classes of women in this world--women who tell naughty stories, and women I have never met!” Also Lotta Munn was by way of being complimentary. She told Warble that old Leathersham thought her a peach, and that Trymie Icanspoon declared he was going to make love to her. That Mrs. Charity Givens had heard she was a great heiress, and meant to stick her for a new hospital. That Le Grand Paynter wanted to do her portrait, life size and full width, and that the Reverend Avery Goodman said she was very light on her feet for a fat woman. The last made Warble mad and she made a face at Lotta and sent her home. * * * * * A rose-colored June day. Meringues of cloud floating on a sky of cerulean custard. She crawled out for a walk. It was ninety-eight in the shade, too hot to run much. She walked down Ptomaine Street, her nose shining, and pearly drops chasing each other down her back like rain on a car window pane. In her tucked white dimity and ankle-ties, her pink sunbonnet and her tiny, frilled parasol, she was as much out of place in the aesthetic town as whipped cream on a grapefruit. She circled the outskirts of the town, and noted the massive and imposing gateways to the great estates. She knew the grandeur inside, she had been there. Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian steppes, and in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an Egyptian temple excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with difficulty and at great expense had buried there. She did not know what to do about it. She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of their homes. Yet she couldn't let it go on--this gigantic inutility, this mammoth lack of practical, efficient management. Why, the ground sunk in a sunken garden would raise crops enough to feed an army--and Lord knew how soon they might be needed. And then she happened to think that reform, like charity should begin at home, and she decided to start in on Petticoat. She did. * * * * * They were sitting in their home-like Tower of Jewels, and, a bit timidly, Warble said, “Let's pote quoetry to each other.” Poor child, nervousness or emotion always made her reverse her initial letters. “All right,” Petticoat returned, good naturedly, “you begin.” Just what Warble wanted! Fate was always good to her. “I will, because I hope to reform your tastes, dear, and teach you to see the beauty of simple beautiful poetry. Listen to this: “Weep and the world weeps with you, Laugh and you laugh alone--” “That'll do, Warb. Don't go too far. Now it's my turn. But, you know, dear, quoting isn't everything. You must learn to dissect, to interpret, and above all to trace the influences that swayed the poet. “Now I'll read you a poem picked at random, and then I'll trace the influences for you.” Petticoat reached out a languid arm, picked up a current magazine and read: “'FULFILMENT