He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and running around, faced him impishly. “Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in the rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?” “No, better stay here--” he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a deep purple bruise. “Why?” “Better not stay here--better go home.” “Why?” “Goodby.” He took her up--it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger--and set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it. * * * * * She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she paused to look in at his door, greeted her: “Had a good time?” She could not answer. He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his wringing wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. “Gooooo--oooo--oo--d night,” he said. That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. * * * * * A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling smattering with a brute beast. “No, he is not! He has noble impulses--ragpicking--inspired! His eyes were misty when he spoke of it-- “A way out of Butterfly Thenter! “A ragpicker's cart-- “A way out--” Petticoat held her up. “You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins.” “Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while.” “Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home.” * * * * * So she was fairly thrown at Porgie. Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or rubbers. The night came unheralded. Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons--over-ripe sardines--and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight. Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black pool, Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing her position every ten seconds. A giant lumbered in. “Porgie!” “Saw your husband speeding away--couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take me upstairs--I want to see your shoe cabinet.” “Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your dreams and ideals--your rags--” “Ah--rags--you do love me!” “I don't know--but I love rags--sweet--so sweet--” “You're a misfit here--as who isn't. All misfits, frauds--fakes--liars--” “All?” Warble looked interested. “Yes, you little simpleton. I know!” He growled angrily. “Shall I tell you--tell you the truth about the Butterflies?” “Pleathe--pleathe--”