Aunt Dressie stared at her. “What use are you?” she said. Warble's brain stopped beating. Bump. * * * * * What use was she--she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! What use? Grrrhhh! She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! “I don't care! I won't endure it! “What's Aunt Dressie anyhow? A military blonde, with glazed chintz undies! What's Marigold Leathersham? A smart party who wears a hat! “What's Iva Payne? Nothing but a backbone--a shad! She's about the shape of a single rose vase! Damn her! Damn Lotta Munn and Daisy Snow, yes and May Young! They think they can charm my Bill off his perch with their revolting artistic propaganda, and their schools and non-schools and neo-schools! Rubbish!” * * * * * And when they came--came and talked wise and technical jargon about being endlessly enveloped in a toneless sound, about being drowned in an overwhelming sea of blue, pure and singing, and a moment later dropped into pale amethyst which in turn deepens to a threatening purple then plunges you into a turmoil of passionate red, always and constantly swirling and whirling and twisting and untwisting, gliding, approaching and retreating in that haunted and inexplicable color space-- There was more--much more--but at this point Warble rose, made a comprehensive, all-embracing and very outspoken face at them and went down to the pantry. “It's no use--” she groaned, “perpetual waste motion--and now waste color! What to do--what to do! “Yet I must reform them somehow. That Iva Payne! Like a pure, pale lily--but I bet her soul has got its rubbers on! Lotta Munn--spinster in name only--with her foolish pleasures and palaces--Daisy Snow, little innocent-making saucer eyes at my husband--oh, Bill, dear, I love you so--I wish I was pale and peakéd and wise and--yes, and artistic! So there now! “Well, there's only two alternatives. I must reform this toy town, or be dragged down to their terrible depths myself! “Aunt Dressie says, love and grow thin. I surely love Bill enough, but if he doesn't love me--maybe I'd better try somebody else. It's done here. “But not Trymie Icanspoon! No, he makes me sick. I guess I'll eat pickles.” * * * * * In the pantry she found the under scullery maid screaming with an earache. “You poor child,” she said, sympathetically, “I'll run and get my husband and he'll cure it.” She flew back to the room where the eager group had their heads together over the blue prints and wash drawing of the new color organ. Pushing in between Iva and Lotta she seized Bill by the arm and said, “hurry up now--matter of life or death--Polly, the maid--dying--urgent case--” By that time they were down in the servant's pantry where Polly was moaning and groaning and wailing like a banshee.