"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,