“What's Iva Payne? Nothing but a backbone—a shad! She's about the shape of a single rose vase! Damn her! Damn Lotta Munn and Daisy Snow, yes and May Young! They think they can charm my Bill off his perch with their revolting artistic propaganda, and their schools and non-schools and neo-schools! Rubbish!”
And when they came—came and talked wise and technical jargon about being endlessly enveloped in a toneless sound, about being drowned in an overwhelming sea of blue, pure and singing, and a moment later dropped into pale amethyst which in turn deepens to a threatening purple then plunges you into a turmoil of passionate red, always and constantly swirling and whirling and twisting and untwisting, gliding, approaching and retreating in that haunted and inexplicable color space—
There was more—much more—but at this point Warble rose, made a comprehensive, all-embracing and very outspoken face at them and went down to the pantry.
“It's no use—” she groaned, “perpetual waste motion—and now waste color! What to do—what to do!
“Yet I must reform them somehow. That Iva Payne! Like a pure, pale lily—but I bet her soul has got its rubbers on! Lotta Munn—spinster in name only—with her foolish pleasures and palaces—Daisy Snow, little innocent-making saucer eyes at my husband—oh, Bill, dear, I love you so—I wish I was pale and peakéd and wise and—yes, and artistic! So there now!
“Well, there's only two alternatives. I must reform this toy town, or be dragged down to their terrible depths myself!
“Aunt Dressie says, love and grow thin. I surely love Bill enough, but if he doesn't love me—maybe I'd better try somebody else. It's done here.
“But not Trymie Icanspoon! No, he makes me sick. I guess I'll eat pickles.”