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!