understand.

"Are you of the cognoscenti?" asked Faith Loveman of Warble. "I know all
about art but I don't know what I like," she returned, blushing prettily.

"Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to
find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in
our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the
pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble that
breaks. We need an outlet--a vent--you understand?"

"Yop," said Warble, "your soul pressure is too high."

"But we want it high--we love it high--we're restless--we're keyed up,
taut-strung, and hungry for soul food."

"I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings."

Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went home.

* * * * *

She reflected.

"It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I
knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems. A big one seems to be
how to get thin and how to stay so. They were all ready to drop the high
sign babble for that! But all women are. They took it up again.

"Can I reform them? Or shall I be sucked in, like Italians eat spaghetti,