"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--"
"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?"
"Goodby."
He took her up--it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger--and set
her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it.
* * * * *
She heard him return to his work. She trotted home.
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