"It's a nickname."

"For what?"

"Areopagitica." "Sweet--sweet--" cooed Warble, dimpling.

"Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers--"

"What!"

"It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my life. But
to be a ragpicker--ah, there's something to strive for! A rattlebanging
cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a galled jade of a
horse, broken traces, mismated lines--whoa!--giddap, there! oh--Warble,
come with me!"

He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and running
around, faced him impishly.

"Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in the
rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?"

"No, better stay here--" he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a deep
purple bruise.

"Why?"

"Better not stay here--better go home."

"Why?"