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