“He's a profiteer—she—well, she was a cook—”
“Marigold! No!”
“Marigold, yes! You are a little numskull, you know. You can't see through these people's masks.”
“Can I reform them?”
“No, Baby Doll, you can't do that. They're dyed in the wool hypocrites—joined to their idols—let 'em alone. And as to that husband of yours—”
“Stop! Stop! I can't stand any more! Pleathe go—pleathe—”
“What're you going to do about that Tertium Quid you've annexed?” Aunt Dressie inquired, casually.
“I don't know,” Warble uncertained. “He has wonderful ambitions and aspirations. He wants to be a ragpicker—a real one.”
“Ambitions are queer things,” Aunt Dressie thoughtfuled. “Now, you mightn't think it, but I want to be a steeple climber.”