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Yet even as she spoke, she overheard Trymie whispering to Iva Payne, "Yes, I believe that the new art era into which we are now slipping, will worship beauty for itself alone, and that art, sublimated by " She turned away, sick at heart. Why bother, her tortured soul cried out. Yet the irrepressible impulse of reform egged her on and it was a perfectly good egg.
"What do they say?" "Well, I hate to stir up trouble, but since you began it, I may as well own up they think you're just about as lowbrow as they come. And I s'pose you are." "Oh, well. And what about the girls? Are they jealous of me?" "Sort of. Lotta says if you cut her out with Trymie Icanspoon, she'll elope with me." "And will she?" "Not if I reach the ticket office first.
From a tray brought by a footman, Warble selected a fuzzy caterpillar and turning quickly dropped it down inside the soft collar of Trymie Icanspoon, a poet, who would dress as he pleased. He went into amusing spasms and everybody took something from the tray. There were cold raw oysters, bits of ice, thistles, cooked spaghetti and plain granulated sugar.
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." In the pantry she found the under scullery maid screaming with an earache. "You poor child," she said, sympathetically, "I'll run and get my husband and he'll cure it."
On they went, and at last, as Warble drew up at the lake in the hall, she was closely followed by Trymie Icanspoon, and true to her promise she rewarded him by pushing him into the lake. It was but a shallow pool, he couldn't drown, but the fun of it was, Warble had caused the water to be drained off and the tank filled with mayonnaise.
As she observed to Petticoat, one day, in exasperation, "There are only two classes of women in this world women who tell naughty stories, and women I have never met!" Also Lotta Munn was by way of being complimentary. She told Warble that old Leathersham thought her a peach, and that Trymie Icanspoon declared he was going to make love to her. That Mrs.
Not only were they all half-soled with it but the merry wags had decorated the ladies' bare backs and the men's coated backs, until all looked like sandwich men or peripatetic ragpickers. Trymie Icanspoon crowned Mrs. Charity Givens with a fresh sheet of tanglefoot and Warble hilariously made a foolscap of another for the Rector's bald head.
"Do you like me?" she whispered. "No," he growled, and she kissed his hand which was like a hand by Rodin. Thus does the law of compensation get in its fine work. Warble remembered the little boy at the public school, and she wished she could give Sproggins a red balloon. "What is he?" she asked of Trymie. "A miniature painter," Icanspoon replied, "and a wonder!
Every different game she tried she took all the stakes, and at last having broken the bank, she was forced to go home for lack of occupation. She was a proud and stuck-up chit all the evening. Trymie Icanspoon called and flirted something fierce.
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