His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear--and his complexion was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy grocers' shops. A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that sort. He was a Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and Tarzan. Warble flew at him. “Do you like me?” she whispered. “No,” he growled, and she kissed his hand which was like a hand by Rodin. Thus does the law of compensation get in its fine work. Warble remembered the little boy at the public school, and she wished she could give Sproggins a red balloon. “What is he?” she asked of Trymie. “A miniature painter,” Icanspoon replied, “and a wonder! He does portraits that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the world agog.” Warble drifted back to the attraction. “_Do_ like me,” she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from the blue. Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who could resist her. Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, pressing them back as if he would tear her apart. “Let me see your soul!” he demanded, and his great face came near to peer down through her eyes. “Ugh, merely blocked in,” and he flung her from him. “It isn't block tin!” she retorted, angrily, “it's pure gold--as you will find out!” He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote himself to Daisy Snow. Bing! That was the way things came to Warble. Fate, Kismet, Predestination--whatever it was, it came zip! boom! hell-for-leather! “It's not only his strength but his crudeness--like petroleum or Egyptian art. “He can control-- “Amazingly impertinent! “He wasn't-- “But I wish he had been-- “He will be!” * * * * * She went to see him--in his studio. A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt gimcracks. Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons. “Get out,” he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his niggling at a miniature. Warble made a face at him. “Do that again,” he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory. A few tiny brushmarks. A wonder picture of Warble--made face, and all. “Pleathe--Pleathe--” she held out her hand, and he dropped the miniature into it. “Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?” he demanded. “Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself.” “I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare.” “Your name? Your silly first name--” “It's a nickname.” “For what?” “Areopagitica.” “Sweet--sweet--” cooed Warble, dimpling. “Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers--” “What!” “It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my life. But to be a ragpicker--ah, there's something to strive for! A rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines--whoa!--giddap, there! oh--Warble, come with me!”