“What expensive people,” she said, “dear--so dear.” “Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come on, Warble, will you?” “Yop,” she murmured, from his coat pocket, “Sweet, so sweet.” CHAPTER III Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. A soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz awnings of the Butterfly Center station. A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit. From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening spaces and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate. It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled. The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped, rose-cheeked girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she looked about. About what? About eighteen. They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble. They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous loving. It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how hungry she could be even on a wedding trip. Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist and a pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their home town. People were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen them before. But these were her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn--and, they didn't seem to need it. They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that there is no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris. But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station were hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and physically, literally butterflies. “Isn't there any way of waking them up?” she begged of Petticoat, grabbing his arm and shaking him. “These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy.” “But they're so smug--no, that isn't what I mean. They're so stick-in-the-mud.” “Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff and mischief.” “I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them.” “Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all down here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you behave yourself.” “Yop.” She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with them all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like Coney Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls. She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, embracing arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they were taking her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame her. “Oh, pleathe--pleathe,” she lisped. In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink calf, Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing, As soft as young, As gay as soft,