Warble interrupted.
“Yes, or as Gertrude Stein puts it: 'It is a gnarled division, that which is not any obstruction, and the forgotten swelling is certainly attracting. It is attracting the whiter division, it is not sinking to be growing, it is not darkening to be disappearing, it is not aged to be annoying. There cannot be sighing. This, is bliss.' There you see how art is greater than life—how—”
“Do you think I'm too fat?” Warble again interrupted him.
“I do, my dear. You weren't, I think you are, I know you will be.”
“Would you love me more if I were—didn't weigh so much?”
“Yes, in exact inverse ratio.”
Warble made an awful face at him, and then she went quietly around behind him, and dropped down his back a little fuzzy caterpillar, which she had tied in her handkerchief for that very purpose.
It was her last effort to cure her husband of culture poisoning, but she was not yet ready to give up her big idea of reforming Butterfly Center.
Warble was a determined little person, and, too, fate often gave her a good boost, and she thought one was about due.