* * * * *

She went to see him--in his studio.

A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt gimcracks.
Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons.

"Get out," he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his
niggling at a miniature.

Warble made a face at him.

"Do that again," he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory.

A few tiny brushmarks.

A wonder picture of Warble--made face, and all.

"Pleathe--Pleathe--" she held out her hand, and he dropped the miniature
into it.

"Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?" he demanded.

"Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself."

"I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare."

"Your name? Your silly first name--"