"Let me see your soul!" he demanded, and his great face came near to peer
down through her eyes.
"Ugh, merely blocked in," and he flung her from him.
"It isn't block tin!" she retorted, angrily, "it's pure gold--as you will
find out!"
He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote
himself to Daisy Snow.
Bing! That was the way things came to Warble.
Fate, Kismet, Predestination--whatever it was, it came zip! boom!
hell-for-leather!
"It's not only his strength but his crudeness--like petroleum or Egyptian
art.
"He can control--
"Amazingly impertinent!
"He wasn't--
"But I wish he had been--
"He will be!"
* * * * *
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.
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