“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!