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."