“They're not girls--they're married women--” “What!” “Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the time--they're pretty modern, you know. They have separate establishments, but they're friendly, pally, and even a heap in love with each other.” “I don't believe it--” “Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble--that is, if you care to tell.” “I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life--not a Butterfly existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going--oh, I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of Butterfly Thenter!” “Warble--haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? The Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers--” “It isn't that, Bill, dear--it's that--you don't love me very much--” Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump shoulder to the other. “Goodby, Warble,” he said. * * * * * That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited measure--freedom! Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen down on the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and indomitable, on her way. * * * * * Hoboken. Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, cauldrons, boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, jars, labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, inflamed oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis. That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position was that of a pickle taster. At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills. A conscientious taster--faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well. Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her. Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of Petticoats. * * * * * Yet: A glorious soft summer afternoon. Warble alone in a room with a big, forceful looking man. The door is closed, and the gentle breeze scarce stirs the opaque white curtains. In the depths of a great arm-chair, Warble, her lovely head upturned sees the eager, earnest face of the man. Closer he draws and a faint pink flush dyes Warble's cheek. His arm is round her soft neck, his hand holds her dimpled chin. With a little sigh, Warble's blue eyes close, her scarlet lips part and though she wants to struggle she dare not, for he is a determined man, and a dentist will have his fill.