“I will! You ought to know--you gullible little fool. Well, to start with, Avery Goodman--in his true nature, he's a worldly, carnal man. His religion is a cloak, a raincoat, a mere disguise. Mrs. Charity Givens, now, she's no more truly charitable than I am! She's shrewd and stingy, her lavish gifts to the poor are merely made for the sake of the praise and eulogy heaped upon her by her admiring friends. Manley Knight, renowed for his bravery in the war, is an arrant coward. His soul is a thing of whining terror, his heroism but a mask. Oh, I know--I read these people truly, when they sit to me--off guard and unconsciously betraying themselves. “Mrs. Holm Boddy! Pah! She's far from domestic! She yearns for the halls of dazzling light, for gayety and even debauchery. Her devotion to home and children is the blackest of lies! And Iva Payne! She's no invalid! It's a pose to seem interesting and delicately fragile. You should see her stuff when no one's looking! “Judge Drinkwater is a secret drunkard. Lotta Munn is a pauper--an adventuress, pretending to wealth she doesn't possess. Herman True and his wife! Zounds, if you could hear those two quarrel! Yet they pose as lovers yet, and folks fall for it!” “May Young?” Warble asked, breathlessly. “An old maid. Well preserved, but no chicken. And Daisy Snow! Angel-faced débutante! Huh, she knows more than her mother ever dreamed of! You should see her in my studio, at her sittings! Cocktails, cigarettes, snatches of wild cabaret songs and dances--oh, Daisy Snow is a caution!” “The Leathershams?” “He's a profiteer--she--well, she was a cook--” “Marigold! No!” “Marigold, yes! You are a little numskull, you know. You can't see through these people's masks.” “Can I reform them?” “No, Baby Doll, you can't do that. They're dyed in the wool hypocrites--joined to their idols--let 'em alone. And as to that husband of yours--” “Stop! Stop! I can't stand any more! Pleathe go--pleathe--” * * * * * “What're you going to do about that Tertium Quid you've annexed?” Aunt Dressie inquired, casually. “I don't know,” Warble uncertained. “He has wonderful ambitions and aspirations. He wants to be a ragpicker--a real one.” “Ambitions are queer things,” Aunt Dressie thoughtfuled. “Now, you mightn't think it, but I want to be a steeple climber.” “You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you--” “Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie--and you saw him first.” * * * * * Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head. Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the rapids are below you! Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First--all the deadly virtues called her. Did she heed? As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. * * * * * On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie came.