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