His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear--and his complexion
was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy grocers' shops.
A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that sort. He was a
Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and Tarzan.

Warble flew at him.

"Do you like me?" she whispered.

"No," he growled, and she kissed his hand which was like a hand by Rodin.

Thus does the law of compensation get in its fine work. Warble remembered
the little boy at the public school, and she wished she could give
Sproggins a red balloon.

"What is he?" she asked of Trymie.

"A miniature painter," Icanspoon replied, "and a wonder! He does portraits
that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the world agog."

Warble drifted back to the attraction.

"_Do_ like me," she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from the
blue.

Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who could
resist her.

Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, pressing