“I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter,” Warble sobbed, “I don't b-belong—and I-m g-going away—”

“All right,” Petticoat said, cheerfully, “how long'll you be gone?”

“It may be four yearth and it may be eleven—”

“Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done.”

“You d-don't underthtand—I'm going to find my plathe in the world—I don't belong here.”

“All right. Can I go 'long?”

“No; you stay here. I'm—oh, don't you thee—I'm leaving you!”

“Oh, that's it?”

“You'll have the girls to amuse you—”

“What girls?”

“Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young—”

“They're not girls—they're married women—”

“What!”

“Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the time—they're pretty modern, you know. They have separate establishments, but they're friendly, pally, and even a heap in love with each other.”

“I don't believe it—”

“Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble—that is, if you care to tell.”

“I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life—not a Butterfly existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going—oh, I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of Butterfly Thenter!”

“Warble—haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? The Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers—”

“It isn't that, Bill, dear—it's that—you don't love me very much—”

Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump shoulder to the other.

“Goodby, Warble,” he said.

That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited measure—freedom!

Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen down on the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and indomitable, on her way.

Hoboken.

Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, cauldrons, boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, jars, labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, inflamed oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis.

That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position was that of a pickle taster.

At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills.

A conscientious taster—faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well.

Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her.

Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of Petticoats.

Yet: A glorious soft summer afternoon.

Warble alone in a room with a big, forceful looking man.

The door is closed, and the gentle breeze scarce stirs the opaque white curtains.

In the depths of a great arm-chair, Warble, her lovely head upturned sees the eager, earnest face of the man. Closer he draws and a faint pink flush dyes Warble's cheek. His arm is round her soft neck, his hand holds her dimpled chin.

With a little sigh, Warble's blue eyes close, her scarlet lips part and though she wants to struggle she dare not, for he is a determined man, and a dentist will have his fill.

Petticoat came to see her in Hoboken after she had been there a year. Unexpected and unannounced, he strode in to the pickle foundry and grasped the fat arm of the girl who worked next to Warble.

“Come along,” he said, not unkindly, but the girl screamed.

“Beg pardon,” Petticoat said, nonchalantly, “sorry. Thought you were my wife. Know where I can find her?”

A slim, fairy-like Warble turned to greet him.

Petticoat couldn't believe his eyes. That sylph, that thread, that wisp—his Warble—his one time plump wife!

“Gee, you're great!” he cried, “I'm for you!”

She got leave from the factory for a couple of years, with privilege of extension.

“I don't want to impose on your kindness,” he said, “but I'd like to chase around Hoboken and take in the sights, I've never been here before.”

“There's a Bairns' Restaurant,” said Warble, shyly, “we might go there.”

They did. In a taxicab. He held her in his lap and told her the news.

He had had his own rooms done over. Mediaeval setting. Romanesque arches. Stained-glass windows. Sculptured cloisters. Good work.

“How are the twins?” she asked, timidly. “Pleathe.”

“Fine. Miss you terribly—we all do. Butterfly Center mourns your loss. Spring a come-back, won't you, Warble?”

“You want me?”

“More than anything in the world! I'm mad about you! You beauty! You raving beauty! You'll be the talk of the world this winter. Gee, Warble, how I can dress you, now you're thin! Won't Beer be astounded!”

That's the way things came to Warble.

The only thing she wanted, her husband's love, now flung at her feet in unstinted measure, pressed down and running over—love, slathers of it—all for her! It was sweet—a pleasant change from pickles.

“How's everybody?”

“Here and there. Iva's gone.”

“Thank Heaven! Where'd she go?”

“Dunno. Her husband took her off. Jealous of me.”

“H'm. And Daisy Snow?”

“Gone into the movies. She grew too heavy for society. May Young's in the Old Ladies' Home.”

“And Lotta Munn?”

“Murdered by her husband. He had to kill her—she wouldn't support him. The Leathershams are in the poorhouse, and Mrs. Charity Givens has bought their place. Want to go on a second honeymoon? Round the world?”

“Yop.”

They went. One night, sitting on top of the Taj Mahal, 'neath the Blue Moon of Persia, Warble cried,

“Shall I go back to Butterfly Thenter—or shall I not?”

“Spin a toddletop,” said Petticoat, taking one from his pocket.

She spun it and it came up pickle foundry.

So Warble said, “All right, dear, I'll go home with you whenever you're ready,” and she kissed him slenderly.

Ptomaine Haul.

Two Petticoats arriving. A happy Warble sprang from the car and seemed fairly to skim up the steps. She passed, unnoticing, the pantry door, and flew up to her own rooms which had been done over to suit her new slenderness.

“Beer,” she cried, “look at me!”

“Maddum!” cried the astounded Beer. “What done it?”

“Unrequited love and pickles. I can wear sport clothes now!”

“Maddum can wear anything or nothing!” declared Beer triumphantly.

That night, Warble, her hands behind her, wafted into Petticoat's room.

He sat on the edge of his bed, running lingerie ribbons in his underwear.

“I'll stay, always,” Warble said, sidling up to him. “And I'm happy. But...”

“Look out! Don't let the cat get that bolt of ribbon to play with!”

She smoothed his pillows and patted his sheets, while Petticoat glanced at her a little suspiciously, from under his gabled eyebrows.

“But I don't say that Butterfly Center is worth the ground it's built on. I don't admit that Ptomaine Street is as useful as a Hoboken alley. I don't admit that Art is any good at all. I've fought like a tiger and I didn't make a dent on the Butterflies—but, I have grown thin!” “Sure, you bet you have!” said Petticoat, threading ribbon into his gold bodkin. “Well, kiss me good night—here you—I see you! Don't you put those caterpillars in my bed!”

THE END