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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8386-0.txt b/8386-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0de34f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/8386-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3866 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ptomaine Street + +Author: Carolyn Wells + + +Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8386] +This file was first posted on July 5, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +PTOMAINE STREET + +THE TALE OF WARBLE PETTICOAT + + +By Carolyn Wells + + +To Roberta Wolf Buehler My Beloved Friend + + + + +FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK + + A certain Poet once opined + That life is earnest, life is real; + But some are of a different mind, + And turn to hear the Cap-bells peal. + Oft in this Vale of Smiles I've found + Foolishness makes the world go round. + + Ecclesiastes, Solomon, + And lots of those who've passed before us, + Denounced all foolishness and fun, + Not so the gay and blithesome Horace; + And Shakespeare's Jaques, somewhat hotly, + Declared the only wear is Motley! + + We mortals, fools are said to be; + And doesn't this seem rather nice? + I learn, on good authority, + That Fools inhabit Paradise! + Honored by kings they've always been; + And--you know where Fools may rush in. + + And so, with confidence unshaken, + In Cap and Bells, I strike the trail. + I know just how, because I've taken + A Correspondence Course by mail. + I find the Foolish life's less trouble + Than Higher, Strenuous or Double. + Dear Reader, small the boon I ask,-- + Your gentle smile, to egg my wit on; + Lest people deem my earnest task + Not worth the paper it is writ on. + Well, at white paper's present worth, + That _would_ be rather high-priced mirth! + + I hope you think my lines are bright, + I hope you trow my jests are clever; + If you approve of what I write + Then you and I are friends forever. + But if you say my stuff is rotten, + You are forgiven and forgotten. + + Though, as the old hymn runs, I may not + Sing like the angels, speak like Paul; + Though on a golden lyre I play not, + As David played before King Saul; + Yet I consider this production + A gem of verbalesque construction. + + So, what your calling, or your bent, + If clergy or if laity, + Fall into line. I'll be content + And plume me on my gayety, + If of the human file and rank + I can make nine-tenths smile,--and thank. + + + + +PTOMAINE STREET + + + + +CHAPTER I + +On a Pittsburgh block, where three generations ago might have been heard +Indian war-whoops--yes, and the next generation wore hoops, too--a +girl child stood, in evident relief, far below the murky gray of the +Pittsburgh sky. + +She couldn't see an Indian, not even a cigar store one, and she wouldn't +have noticed him anyway, for she was shaking with laughter. + +A breeze, which had hurried across from New York for the purpose, blew +her hat off, but she recked not, and only tautened her hair ribbon with +an involuntary jerk just in time to prevent that going too. + +A girl on a Pittsburgh block; bibulous, plastic, young; drinking the air +in great gulps, as she would later drink life. + +It is Warble Mildew, expelled from Public School, and carolling with +laughter. + +She had only attended for four weeks and they had been altogether +wasted. In her class there were several better girls, many brighter, one +prettier, but none fatter. The schoolgirls marveled at the fatness of +her legs when, skirts well tucked up, they all waded in the brook. Every +cell of her body was plump and she had dimples in her wrists. + +And cheeks, like: + + A satin pincushion pink, + Before rude pins have touched it. + +Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice +and her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls--you +know, sort of ringolets. + +In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was +more dressed. + + * * * * * + +Expelled! + +That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on +in broad strokes--in great splashes--in slathers. + +Expelled! And she had scarce dared hope for such a thing. + + * * * * * + +To sound the humor of Warble. + +She hated school. Books, restraint, routine, scratching slate pencils, +gum under desks, smells--all the set up palette of the schoolroom was +not to her a happy vehicle of self-expression. + +Often, in hope of being sent home, she had let a rosy tongue-tip +protrude from screwed up red lips at teacher, but it had gone +unpunished. + +And now-- + +Now, rocking in triumphant, glorious mirth, her plump shoulders hunched +in very ecstasy, the child was on the peak! + +Expelled! Oh, gee! + +And all because she had put a caterpillar down Pearl Jane Tuttle's back. +One little, measly caterpillar. + +Pearl Jane had sat right in front of her. + +A loose neckband round a scrawny neck. + +And when Pearl Jane wiggled, a space of neck between two thin, tight +black pigtails--a consequent safe-deposit that was fairly crying out to +have something dropped down it. + +A caterpillar mooching along the schoolroom aisle--clearly sent by +Providence. + +Helpless in the grip of an irresistible subconscious complex, Warble +scoops up the caterpillar and in an instant has fed him into the gaping +maw at the back of that loose gingham neckband. + +Gr-r-r-r-rh! + + * * * * * + +That, then, is why Warble stood in such evident relief on the Pittsburgh +block. + +Expelled! The world was hers! + +It had always been hers, to be sure, but it was now getting bigger and +more hers every minute. + +The very first day she went to school, a little boy said to her: + +“Do you like me?” + +“No,” said Warble. + +The little boy gave her all his candy and his red balloon. + +So you see, she had a way--and got away with it. + + * * * * * + +Warble was an orphan. She had a paprika-seasoned sister, married to a +chiropodist, in Oshkosh. But for all that, she planned to earn her own +living. + +And she had an ambition. At present beyond her grasp, yet so sure +was she of its ultimate attainment, that she shaped her entire cosmic +consciousness toward that end. Her ambition was not unique, perhaps +not unattainable. It had been achieved by others with seemingly little +effort and less skill; and though as yet, merely a radiant hope, Warble +was determined that some day she would gain her goal. + +Her ambition was to get married. Her sister had; her mother had; she +politely assumed her grandmother had. + +She would. + +Often she imagined herself the heroine of delightful scenes she watched +at the cinema. She loved the slow unwinding of the story on the screen, +but when engaged with her imagination she hurried it on in haste to +reach the final close-up. + + * * * * * + +It was at no one's advice, but because of her own inner yearnings that +Warble took a job as waitress in a Bairns' Restaurant. + +She reveled in the white tiles, the white gloss paint, the eternal +clearing-up and the clatter of flatware. She loved the flatware--it +always made her think of a wedding--sometimes of her own. + +She adored the white-capped King Alfred baking his cakes in the window, +but merely as a fixture, as she adored the mute stacks of clean plates +and the piles of pathetic little serviettes. + +In a more intimate and personal way she adored the pork and beans, the +ham and eggs, the corned beef and cabbage, and--importantly--the gentle, +easy-going puddings and cup custards. These things delighted her soul +and dimpled her body. + +She was proud of her fellow-waitresses, proud of their aspirations (the +same as her own). + +Having exceptional opportunity, Warble learned much of culinary art +and architecture, at least she became grounded in elementary alimentary +science. + +She had little notebooks filled with rules for Parisian pastry, Hindu +recipes for curry; foreign dishes with modern American improvements. + +Joyously she learned to make custard pie. This, as the tumultous future +proved, was indicative. + +Only the little smiling gods of circumstance, wickedly winking at one +another, knew that when Warble whipped cream and beat eggs, she laid +the corner stone of a waiting Destiny, known as yet but to the blinking +stars above the murky Pittsburgh sky. + +She was extravagant as to shoes and diet; and, on the whole, she felt +that she was living. + +She was not mistaken. + +She went to dances, but though sometimes she toddled a bit, mostly she +sat out or tucked in. + +During her three years as a waitress several customers looked at her +with interest though without much principle. + +The president of a well-known bank, the proprietor of a folding-bed +concern, a retired plumber, a Divinity student and a ticket-chopper. + +None of these made her bat an eyelash. + +For months no male came up for air. Then, the restaurant door swung back +on its noiseless check and spring, and in walked Big Bill Petticoat. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Petticoats were one of the oldest and pride-fullest of New England +families. So that settles the status of the Petticoats. A couple of them +came over in the _Mayflower_, with the highboys and cradles and things, +and they founded the branch of Connecticut Petticoats--than which, of +course, there is nothing more so. + +Of course, the Petticoats were not in the very upper circles of society, +not in the Dress Circle, so to speak, but they formed a very necessary +foundation, they stood for propriety and decency, and the Petticoats +were stiff enough to stand alone. + +Another fine old New England family, the Cottons. + +Intermarriage linked the two, and the Cotton-Petticoats crowded all +other ancient and honorable names off the map of Connecticut and nodded +condescendingly to the Saltonwells and Hallistalls. Abbotts and Cabots +tried to patronize them, but the plain unruffled Cotton-Petticoats held +their peace and their position. + +The present scion, Dr. Petticoat, was called Big Bill, not because of +his name or stature, but because of the size of his bills. He presented +them quarterly, and though his medicine was optional--the patient could +take it or leave it--the bills had to be paid. + +Wherefore Dr. Petticoat was at the head of his profession financially. +Also by reputation and achievement, for he had the big idea. + +He was a specialist, and, better yet, a specialist in Ptomaine +Poisoning. + +Rigidly did he adhere to his chosen line, never swerving to right or +left. People might die on one side of him from water on the brain and on +the other side from water on the palate, not a prescription could they +get out of Big Bill Petticoat unless they could put up unmistakable +symptoms of ptomaine poisoning. + +And he was famous. People brought their ptomaines to him from the +far places, his patients included the idlest rich, the bloatedest +aristocrats, the most profitable of the profiteers. His Big Bill system +worked well, and he was rich beyond the most Freudian dreams of avarice. + +As to appearance, Petticoat was very pretty, with that fresh rosy +beauty that is so attractive. His walnut hair was fine and silky, but +a permanent wave made it fuzz forth in a bushy crinkle that was +distractingly lovely. His tweezed eyebrows were arched to a perfect span +and his finger nails showed a piano polish. + +His features were cold-chiseled and his coloring was exquisite. In fact, +his coloring was too good to be true, and no wonder, for it came out of +a very modern and up-to-date six-cylinder makeup box. + +His lips looked as if they were used to giving orders in restaurants, +and he wore clothes which you could never quite forget. + +Warble edged toward the stranger, and murmured nothing in particular, +but somehow he drifted into the last and only vacant seat at her table. + +She whisked him a 2 x 2 napkin, dumped a clatter of flatware at him, and +stood, awaiting his order. + +The pause becoming lengthy, she murmured with her engaging smile, +“Whatcha want to eat?” + +“Pleased to eat you,” he responded, looking at her as though she was an +agreeable discovery. + +Small wonder, for Warble was so peachy and creamy, so sweet and +delectable that she was a far more appetizing sight than most viands +are. She smiled again--engagingly this time, too. + +Thus in the Painted Vale of Huneker, Vamp and Victim beguiled the hours. +Thus, and not in treacled cadences, intrigued Mariar and Sir Thomas in +the back alley. + +“Do you like it here?” asked the doctor. + +“Yop. But sometimes I feel wasted--” + +“You don't look wasted--” + +“No--” after a hasty glance in the wall mirror. + +“Don't you get sick of the sight of food?” + +“Here, oh, no! I don't know any lovelier sight than our kitchens--yes, +yes, sir, I'll get your pied frotatoes at oneth.” + +When Warble was a bit frustrated or embarrassed, she often inverted her +initials and lisped. It was one of her ways. + +The other clients at her table had no intention of being neglected while +their Pickfordian waitress smiled engagingly on a newcomer. + +It was the iceman who had hollered. He seemed to be merely a red-faced +inanimate object, that worked by strange and compound levers. + +Next him was a hat-check girl, a queenly person who communed with +something set in the lid of her vanity case, and fed on chicken à la +king. + +Then there was a newsboy, whose all-observant eyes darted about +everywhere, the while he absorbed baked beans and ketchup. + +An old maid shopper. She merely brooded over her worn and pencil-scored +memorandum, and muttered of fringe and buttons as she spilled tea on her +samples of Navy blue foulard. + +A blind man. Of no interest save that he had a calm and gentle demeanor +and was the only one who didn't spill things. His face wore a grieved +but resigned look, as if something had died in his scrambled eggs. The +iceman, who had the hard, set jaw of a prize fighter was successfully +eating steak, and he welcomed the incoming fried potatoes, as one greets +a new instalment of a serial. + +It was a fat and pink and lovely Warble who at last trotted back with +Petticoat's order. + +The great specialist had an unbridled passion for pie, and throwing +restraint to the winds he had ordered three kinds. The wedges +Warble brought were the very widest she could wheedle from the head +pie-cutter--and Warble was some wheedler, especially when she coaxed +prettily for a big pieth of cuthtard. + +Petticoat looked at her again as she came, pie-laden. + +Her cap was a bit askew, but her eyes weren't. In her white linen dress +and apron and white cap, her little pink face looked to Petticoat's +appraising glance like a postage stamp on an expanse of white linen +envelope. + +Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put +his foot in it. Yet he did. + +“May I see you again sometime?” he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's +ogling and the iceman's cold stare. + +Warble made a face at him. It was one of her ways. + +“What's your address?” he asked. “You can ask the Boss--if you really +want to know.” + +“Want to know! Say, you waitress!” + +Of the love-making of Warble and Big Bill Petticoat there is nothing to +be reported which may not be read in any Satevepost serial, which may +not be heard at any summer resort, in any winter garden. They were +zoology and history. Their speech was free silver and their silence was +golden. + +It was a non-stop courtship. All the plump beauty of youth and all the +assured complacence of a well-to-do married man kept them up in the air. + +Petticoat wasn't a married man, but he had their technique. + +They took a walk, and followed a roundabout way. Then they sat on a +bank, and his arm followed a roundabout way. + +She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin +frock and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink +roses, and roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture. + +Petticoat was charmed. + +“Golly, but I love you, Warble!” he cried. + +She did not answer, but she touched the upper edge of the wallet in his +breast pocket with an exploring gesture. + +“You think I'm too darn aesthetic! Well, you're not, and so we ought to +mate. We're complementary to one another, like air and sunshine or light +and shade.” + +“Or pork and beans, or pie and cheese.” + +“Yes, or like stout and porter--I'll be the porter, oh--what's the use +of talking? Let my lips talk to you!” + +He kissed her cheek, imprinting thereon a Cupid's bow, by reason of his +own addiction to the lipstick. + +Warble rubbed it off with the back of her hand, and said, “Oh, +pleathe--pleathe.” + +She wondered if she ought to have said thank you, but it was only a +drifting thought and she turned the other cheek. Then she smiled her +engaging smile and they were engaged. + +Later in the game, she said, with pretty diffidence, “I would like to +thee Butterfly Thenter.” And she blushed like the inside of those pink +meat melons. + +“I knew it!” and Petticoat produced a pile of Sunday Picture +Supplements. + +Her cheek nested in his permanent wave, Warble studied the pictures. + +They were the last word in artistic architecture. Truly, Butterfly +Center, where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless +Town and Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching +trees, sublimated houses, glorified shops--it seemed to Warble like a +flitter-work Christmas card from the drug-store. + +“How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?” he +jollied her. + +“It might be--a lark--” she dubioused. + +“But here's the picture!” and proudly he exhibited a full length view of +his own home. + +“Ptomaine Haul,” he exploited, proudly. “Built every inch of it from the +busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's +the sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now--he has a corking +château--French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens--she has a Georgian +shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most profitable +patients--sick all the time.” + +Warble studied the pictures. + +“What expensive people,” she said, “dear--so dear.” + +“Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come +on, Warble, will you?” + +“Yop,” she murmured, from his coat pocket, “Sweet, so sweet.” + + + + +CHAPTER III + +Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. +A soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz +awnings of the Butterfly Center station. + +A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit. + +From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening +spaces and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate. + +It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled. + +The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped, +rose-cheeked girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she +looked about. + +About what? + +About eighteen. + +They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble. + +They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous loving. + +It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how +hungry she could be even on a wedding trip. + +Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist and +a pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their home town. +People were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen them before. But +these were her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn--and, they +didn't seem to need it. + +They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that there +is no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris. + +But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station +were hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and +physically, literally butterflies. + +“Isn't there any way of waking them up?” she begged of Petticoat, +grabbing his arm and shaking him. + +“These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy.” + +“But they're so smug--no, that isn't what I mean. They're so +stick-in-the-mud.” + +“Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a +woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff +and mischief.” + +“I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them.” + +“Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all down +here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you behave +yourself.” + +“Yop.” + +She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with +them all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like +Coney Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls. + +She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, +embracing arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they +were taking her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame +her. + +“Oh, pleathe--pleathe,” she lisped. + +In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled +white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink +calf, Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing, + + As soft as young, + As gay as soft, + +and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her. + +Not so the remainder of the citizens. + +One of the men was yelling at Petticoat: + +“Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours--I'll tote the bride-person +you've got there--with joy and gladness.” Warble looked at the yeller. + +“Can't quite place me, chick, can you?” he grinned at her. “Well I'm +only old Goldwin Leathersham--no use for me in the world but to spend +money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing--step up here, +Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than she looks, Mrs. +Petticoat.” + +“Indeed I'm not,” Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, “I couldn't +be--nobody could be!” + +She came running--a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of +expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a +lavish smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away from +and through Warble, yet she saw her. + +“So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby,” she chirruped. “You're going +to love us all, aren't you?” + +“Yop,” said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile. + +“You bet she'll love us,” declared Leathersham, “she'll make the +world go round! Hello, Little One,” he turned to pat the cheek of a +white-haired, red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, stood +by, listening in. “This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs. +Charity Givens--noted for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads +all Donation Lists, and she's going to start a rest cure where your +husband's unsuccessful cases may die in peace. And here's one of the +cases. Hello, Iva Payne!” + +“Hello,” languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily--a Burne-Jones +type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass window to rest +her head against. + +“Are you really Bill's wife?” she asked, a little disinterestedly, of +Warble. + +“Yop,” said Warble, and made a face at her. + +“How quaint,” said Iva. + +“Whoopee, Baby! Here we are,” and Petticoat rescued his bride from the +middle of a crowd and yanked her toward his car. + +The car was a museum piece, and as Warble caromed into its cushions she +felt that her lines had fallen in pleasant places. + +That was the way Fate came to Warble. In big fat chunks, in slathers. +Unexpected, sudden, inescapable--that's Fate all over. + +“I shall like Mr. Leathersham--I shall call him Goldie. They're all +nice and friendly--the men. But this town! Oh, my Heavens! This Jewel +Casket--this Treasure Table! I can't live through it! This Floating +Island of a Tipsy Charlotte!” Her husband nudged her. “You look like you +had a pain,” he said; “Scared? I don't expect you to fit in at first. +You have to get eased into things. It's different from Pittsburgh. But +you'll come to like it--love is so free here, and the smartest people on +earth.” + +She winked at him. “I love you for your misunderstanding. I'm just +dog-tired. And too many chocolates. Give me a rest, dear. I'm all in +from wear sheeriness.” + +She laid her feet in his lap and snuggled into the corner of the +pearl-colored upholstery. + +She was ready for her new home, beautiful, celebrated Ptomaine Haul. +Petticoat told her that his mother had been living with him, but had +fled incontinently on hearing a description of Warble. + +The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a +corner and stopped under the _porte cochère_ of a great house set in the +midst of a landscape. + +Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves. + +A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great +porch, and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield. + +A great hall--at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the +right, a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride. + +“You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is--in case you +care to rebuild or redecorate.” + +“It's a sweet home--” she was touched by his indifference. “So +artistic.” + +Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, +carelessly, “Yes, home is where the art is,” and let it go at that. + +In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and +magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller +skates. + +As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, +she quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth. + +She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had +realized her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the +final close-up. + +What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt, +and admire his rich and expensive clothing. + +“Dear--so dear--” she murmured. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +“The Leathershams are giving a ball for us to-night,” Petticoat said, +casually, as he powdered his nose in the recesses of his triplicate +mirror. + +“A ball?” + +“Oh, I don't mean a dance--I mean--er--well, what you'd call a sociable, +I suppose.” + +“Oh, ain't we got fun!” + +“And, I say, Warble, I've got to chase a patient now; can you hike about +a bit by yourself?” + +“Course I can. Who's your patient?” + +“Avery Goodman--the rector of St. Judas' church. He will eat terrapin +made out of--you know what. And so, he's all tied up in knots with +ptomaine poisoning and I've got to straighten him out. It means a lot to +us, you know.” + +“I know; skittle.” + +Left alone, Warble proceeded systematically to examine the interior of +Ptomaine Haul. She gazed about her own bedroom and a small part of +its exquisite beauty dawned upon her. It was an exact copy of Marie +Antoinette's and the delicately carved furniture and pale blue +upholstery and hangings harmonized with the painted domed ceiling and +paneled walls. + +The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as +Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to the +embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole. + +The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets, such +as Warble had not smelled since before the war. + +“Can you beat it,” she groaned. “How can I live with doodads like this?” + She saw the furniture as a circle of hungry restaurant customers ready +to eat her up. She kicked the dozen lace pillows off the head of the +bed. + +“No utility anywhere,” she cried. “Everything futile, inutile, brutal! I +hate it! I hate it! Why did I ever--” + +And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled +Petticoat--not one of those that Oliver Herford so pathetically dubbed +“the short and simple flannels of the poor.” + +Yes, she was now a Petticoat--one of the aristocratic Cotton-Petticoats, +washable, to be sure, but a dressy Frenchy Petticoat, and as such she +must take her place on the family clothesline. + +She drifted from oriel window to casement, and on to a great becurtained +and becushioned bay, and looked out on the outlook. + +She saw gardens like the Tuileries and Tuilerums, soft, shining pools, +little skittering fountains, marble Cupids and gay-tinted flowers. This +was the scene for her to look down upon and live up to. + +“I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon! Am I sick?... +Good Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! I'd hate it--I'd be scared +to death! Some day--but, please, kind Fate, not now! I don't want to go +down now with ptomaine poisoning! Not till after I've had my dinner! I'm +going out for a walk.” + +When Warble had plodded along for six hours, she had pretty well done up +the town. + +Ptomaine Street, which took its name from her husband's own residence, +was a wide, leafy avenue with a double row of fine old trees on each +side. They were Lebbek trees, and the whole arrangement was patterned +after the avenue which Josephine built for Napoleon, out to the Mena +House. + +She passed the homes of the most respectable citizens. Often they were +set back from the road, and the box hedges or tall iron fences prevented +her from seeing the houses. But she saw enough and sped on to the more +interesting business and shopping section of Butterfly Center. + +She passed Ariel Inn, the hotel being like a Swiss Chalet, perched on +some convenient rocks that rose to a height above street level. A few +fairly nimble chamois were leaping over these rocks and Warble heard a +fairy-like chime of bells as afternoon tea was announced. + +A man in an artist's smock sauntered across the street. A palette on +one thumb, he scratched his chin with the other. A hearse, its long +box filled with somebody, crawled down the block. A dainty Sedan with a +woman's idle face at its window wafted by. From a Greek Temple came the +sound of Interpretative Dancing, and the applause of perfunctory hands. + +She wanted to elope. Her own ideas of utility, efficiency, and economy +were being shattered--broken in pieces like a potter's vessel. Her sense +of proportion, her instinct for relative values, her abhorrence of waste +motion, her inborn system and method, all were swept away as a thief in +the night. Could she reform this giddy whirl? Could she bring chaos out +of cosmos? Was her own ego sufficient to egg her on in her chosen work? + +She haed her doots. + +She maundered down the street on one side--back on the other. + +Dudie's Drug-store was like unto a Turkish Mosque. Minaret and pinnaret, +battlement and shuttle-door, it was a perfect drug-store, nobly planned. +The long flight of steps leading up to its ptortal was a masterpiece in +the step line. + +Inside, the Soda Pagoda was a joy of temple bells and soft, sweet +drinks, while at the prescription counter, the line formed on the right, +to get Dr. Petticoat's prescriptions filled for their ptomaines. + +A Moldavian Incense Shop was the barber's; a half-timbered house +sold English-built clothes; a brick affair of Georgian influences and +splendid lines, housed the hardware needed by the Butterflies, and the +milliner's was a replica of the pyramid of Cestus. + +The bank was the Vatican, with Swiss guards in the doorway. + +Perpetual waste motion! In all the town not one building that connoted +to Warble the apotheosis of efficiency shown by the King Alfred tossing +cakes in the window of Bairns' Restaurant. Not a dozen buildings that +even suggested use in addition to their beauty. + +And the street was cluttered with trees in tubs, window boxes, +sudden little fountains or statues; gilded wicker birdcages on tall +poles--songs issuing therefrom. + +Arbors, covered with pink Dorothy Perkinses, here and there by the +curbside. And, worst of all, people sitting idle in the arbors. Idle! + +She wouldn't have cared so much, if the people had been busy--even one +of them. She fought herself. “I must be wrong. It can't be as silly as +it looks! It can't!” + +She went home and found Petticoat waiting for her. + +“Like the burg, eh? Great stuff, what? Not an eyesore inside the city +wall. Good work, I'll megaphone.” + +Warble sat down in an easy-going chair--so easy, it slid across the room +with her, and collided with a life-sized Chinese lady of yellow stone. + +“Yes,” Warble responded, “it's very uninteresting.” + + + + +CHAPTER V + +Goldwin Leathersham was a great Captain of Industry. In fact, he put the +dust in industry, or, at least, he took it out of it. He got it, anyway. + +His home was an Aladdin's Palace, with a slight influence of Solomon's +Temple. Gold was his keynote, and he was never off the key. + +When our Petticoats arrived at the party, they were met by gold-laced +footmen, who whisked them into shape and passed them along. + +Warble found herself in a white and gold salon, so vast, that she felt +like a goldfish out of water. The place looked as if Joseph Urban had +designed it after he had died and gone to Golconda. Whatever wasn't +white was gold, and the other way round. The gold piano had only white +keys, and the draperies were cloth of gold with bullion fringe. All +real, too--no rolled or plated stuff. + +A huge coat-of-arms in a gold frame announced that Mr. Leathersham was +descended from the Gold Digger Indians, a noble ancestry indeed; and it +was no secret that his wife had played in “The Gold-diggers,” during its +second decade run. + +Marigold Leathersham was a charming hostess, and greeted Warble with a +shriek of welcome. “You duck,” she cried; “how heavenly of you to dress +so well.” + +Warble was simply attired in a white pussy-willow silk underslip. In her +haste and excitement she had forgotten to add the gown meant to go over +it, and as she wore no jewels save the chased gold lingerie clasps +at her shoulders, the result was a simplicity as charming as it was +unintentional. + +And so she made a hit. + +That was the way things came to Warble; a hit--a social success--and all +because she forgot to put on her frock. + +She mingled with the glittering throng of gilded youth, of golden lads +and girls, of gilt-edged married people, and found herself in the arms +of Goldwin Leathersham, her host. + +“Here comes the bride,” he shouted, as he piloted her about and +introduced everybody to her. + +“This demure little beauty,” he said, “is Daisy Snow. Note her sweet, +pure face and wide-eyed, innocent gaze.” + +“It is all so new--so wonderful--” Miss Snow breathed, “I'm a débutante, +you know, and I have scarcely butterflied out of my chrysalis yet. How +splendid the Leathershams are. He has a heart of gold. Oh, he is such +a good man, he says his life motto is the Golden Rule.” + +“And Mrs. Leathersham?” asked Warble. + +“Marigold? Oh, yes, she's as good as gold, too. We're firm friends.” + +Warble was agog to mingle, so she moved on. + +Le Grand Paynter, a celebrated Cubic artist, fascinated her with his +flowing locks, flowing tie and marvelous flow of conversation. He asked +to paint her as a Semi-nude Descending a Ladder, but she only said she +must refer him to her Petticoat. + +Freeman Scattergood, the well-known philanthropist was chatting with +Mrs. Charity Givens, who was the champion Subscription List Header. Many +had tried to oust her from this enviable position but without success. +Near them stood Avery Goodman, the rector, and he was deeply engaged in +a flirtation with Miss May Young, one of his choir girls. + +Manley Knight, a returned soldier, was resplendent with a Croix de +Guerre, a Hot Cross Bun and many other Noughts and Crosses. + +Warble fingered them in her light way. + +“Isn't he splendid!” babbled Daisy Snow the _ingénue_; “Oh, how +wonderful to offer one's life for glory! You can fairly see the heroism +bubble out of his eyes!” + +“How you admire him!” said Warble. + +“Yes, but he doesn't care for me.” + +“Not specially,” admitted Manley Knight. “Yes,” Daisy said. “He thinks +me too ignorant and unsophisticated--and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, +the heiress--she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to +Lotta. I think it will be a real love match--like the Trues.” + +“The Trues?” asked Warble, politely. + +“Yes,” and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart +from the rest, on a small divan. “They're wonderful! Herman True is the +most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his +wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And +they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what +a fate!” + +Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of +cold boiled ham. + +But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of +cocktails. + +Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a débutante so did Judge +Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a +Prohibitionist. + +A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked +Daisy who she might be. + +“Oh, that's Iva Payne--you met her, you know. She's very delicate, +a semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't +exactly know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to +the doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat--I believe she brings +her own specially prepared food to parties. + +“She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right,” Warble commented. + +“I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her--she is not at +all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says.” + +“Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?” + +“Oh no! I'm a débutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I +take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette.” + +“Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a +thousand.” + +This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the +matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her +mother permitted. + +Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some débutante +also, for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly +interested in the whole matter. + +She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded +toward the dining-room. But no such luck. + +Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the +crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, +facing a platform as large as a theater stage. + +An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous +applause. + +“Who is he?” Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery +Goodman, “an impersonator?” + +“Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist--rants on Fourth Avenue +dimensions, or something like that.” + +In a tone of forceful mildness the speaker began: “It must be conceded +that, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all +insensate communication, that a psychic moment may or may not, in +accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, +become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a +trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, +no feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable +demand of endurance. + +“Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the +investiture of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in +accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, +to become warily regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof +of a smouldering discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a +trenchant humor, it may or may not be warily regarded. + +“Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to +psychic action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of +disregarded symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power +of doubt, considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our +argument as faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the +corollary reasoning must be that no premise is or may be capable of such +conclusion as will render it sublunary to its agreed parallel. + +“But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution. + +“We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is +impossible in connection with neo-psychology.” + +There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep. + +She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan +soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for +Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones. + +Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but +the music went inexorably on. + +It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet. + +This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the +applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of +his beard. + +By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever +and she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy +Snow, and it was not Warble's way to cut in. + +In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions +from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, +and Warble went back to sleep. + +There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was +cleared for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a +small glass of punch and a wafer to each. + +Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper +buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys. + +Warble and Petticoat reached home. + +“Howja like 'em?” he asked. + +“I'm so hungry,” she wailed. + +“Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It +isn't done. Watch Iva Payne--she doesn't.” + +“Oh, Bill--” Warble began to cry. “I want to go back to the +restaurant--” + +“No, no--now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're a +smart crowd--” + +Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled +up her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and +waited to be kissed. + +She was. + +* * * * * + +Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a +built-in English bed, with gray draperies. + +Through a cloth of silver portiére, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. +Oxidized silver plumbing exposure. + +No pictures on the walls, save one--a barbaric Russian panel by +Larrovitch. + +At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk--all gray. + +A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon +it and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the +quarrel. + +“They took to you,” he said, “you went like hot cakes!” + +It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging +smile, wheedled, “Pleathe, pleathe--” + +“No,” Petticoat said, inexorably, “if you eat all the time you'll get to +look like that soprano. Howja like that?” + +“Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?” + +“Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're +my--well, you're my soulmate.” + +“Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my +appetite--you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!” + +He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about +his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Warble's own maid was named Beer. + +A French thing--so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied +with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that +displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris +reported skirts going up or down as the case might be. + +A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, +and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll. + +Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it +impossible. Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard +sauce off a hot apple dumpling. + +“Do you get enough to eat, Beer?” her mistress asked her. + +“Wee, maddum,” the maid replied, in her pretty War French. “I eat but a +small.” + +“Well, don't drop to pieces, that's all,” warned Warble. As to personal +care and adornment the hitherto neglected education of Warble Petticoat +was in Beer's hands. And she handed it out with unstinted lavishness. + +That was the way things came to Warble; in slathers--in big fat chunks. +In avalanches and rushing torrents. + +Beer engineered all her new wardrobe, and received sealed proposals for +its construction. + +Beer taught her the mysteries of the toilette table, and once initiated +into this entrancing art, Warble let herself go in the matter of +cosmetics and make-ups, and could scarce wait for Beer's afternoon out, +to dabble about by herself. + +Beer taught her how to wear jewelry, and directed what pieces she should +ask Petticoat for next. + +Altogether, Warble was trying out things--but carefully, as a good +housewife tries out lard. + +And she was not yet certain as to the results. Environment has to +reckon, now and then with heredity. + +Warble, at soul, all for utility, economy, diligence and efficiency, +transplated to Butterfly Center, with its keynote of careless idleness, +waste motion and extravagance. + +One must win out. Had she a Dempsey of a heredity against a Carpentier +of an environment? Or was it the other way round? + +She planned to reform Butterfly Center, to do away with the street +statues, the useless patches of flowers; tear down and rebuild the +ridiculous classic architecture of many of the shops and substitute +good solid livable houses for the castles and châteaux, the barracks and +bungalows that adorned the residence section. + +These reforms she meant to bring about shortly, but first, she must +begin with her home. + +In her pride of being a Petticoat she loved every detail of Ptomaine +Haul. Yet she knew it did not express herself, it was not the keynote of +her own Warbling personality. + +What to do. + +She sat in her boudoir, its mauve walls and gold Japanese screens +backgrounding her plump prettiness, as she lolled on a gold brocade +_chaise longue_. + +She glanced out at the peacocks strutting in the Italian garden and +listened to the rooks cawing in the cypresses between the marble urns on +the terrace steps. + +It was a big proposition to change all that. To turn the bird sticks +into pruning hooks and the bird baths into plowshares. + +Could she do it? + +Doubtful. + +She went out into the hall and looked over the rail of the great +rotunda. Rugs hung from the rail, as it might be a Turkish Monday. + +Below, she could see the lake in the front hall, also she could glimpse +the armored bronze Petticoats guarding the entrance that led to the +corridor that led to the hall leading into the dining-room. + +It was well nigh hopeless. + +Warble sighed. Then she rang for Beer and ordered some French pastry and +a cup of chocolate. + +Revived and revivified, Warble decided on a mad dash for reform. + +Ordering Beer to dress her quickly, she did all she could to help, and +soon, in a daring combination of canary, black and coral, she was on her +way to the shops. + +She achieved what is known as a utility box, and which is compounded of +matting and a few bamboo strips. + +This she caused to be set up in her boudoir. + +Came Petticoat. + +No oral observations, but the next day an antique Florentine chest, +carved by Dante, replaced the box. + +“Just as utile,” Bill remarked, “and a lot more expensive. Kiss me.” + +That is the way the Petticoats of this world decree, and that is the way +the Warbles submit. + +That Thursday afternoon she was in love with her husband. She toddled +into his room to talk to him. She was in pastel chiffon boudoir +jambiéres picked out with rosebuds. She sat, cross-legged, on one of his +gray satin floor pillows and looked up at him. + +Petticoat was just going out and he sat before the mirror, earnestly +adjusting a hair net over his permanent. + +“Hello, _Fruit Mousse_,” he said, half absent-mindedly, as he went on +adjusting. + +Big Bill Petticoat was far from being effeminate. He was found of +aesthetics and anaesthetics, and his chief interests in life were beauty +and his big bills. + +“What's the use of beauty, if a thing isn't useful?” Warble would ask, +and Petticoat would reply, “What's the use of use, anyway? There's no +use in having anything that isn't beautiful.” + +And as the house was under Petticoat rule, Big Bill won out. + +“You must have a party, Warble,” Petticoat said, as he fitted a long, +slim cigarette into a long, slim holder. + +“I'd rather have a baby,” and she looked up at him inquiringly. + +“Honest, Warbie, I can't afford it. I've lots of money, but we take a +lot of keeping ourselves, and to keep a baby means almost a whole +extra establishment. Let's wait till I've saved up a bit, or we have a +windfall. Leathersham owes me a small fortune for his cook's ptomaine +cases--she's always getting poisoned with her imported canned +things--but Goldie's slow pay, and too, I want to make a few +improvements on the place. I'm thinking of bringing over a Moorish +Courtyard intact--nice, eh?” + +“What's it good for?” demanded Warble. “We've done our courting, and +anyway--look here, Bill, there's only three things I can do. Have a +baby--” + +“Cut it out, Warb; I haven't the means just now. And it might be twins.” + +“That's so. Well, the second thing is to reform this town. It's going +to the dogs--to little, silly Pekes and Poms. I can save it, and correct +its ways and put it on a sound utilitarian basis.” + +“Don't believe you could do that.” + +“Can do. But the third trick is to flop over to their side and be like +the town people myself.” + +Petticoat laughed outright. + +“Nixy on that, Warble, my duck. You'd have to reduce.” + +“I speck I should. Well, then the reform act for mine. I've got to do +something, Pet, to keep amused and interested.” + +“That's what I said. Have a party.” + +“I will. And it will be part of the reform. These people are too +highbrow. Too soulful. Too artistic--” + +“Warble! How many times have I told you _never_ to use that word! Now, +look here, if you want to play at reforming, go ahead, nobody will +interfere with you. But where'll you get time? You spend most of your +waking hours in slumber, and the rest, eating. You're a sweet, lovely, +cuddly thing, but if you keep on, some day you'll find you can't get +your kimono together.” + +“Then I'll wear two. But, Bill, I'm not so big, you know.” + +Warble up, and parading the room with a martial air. + +“You're a perfect Bellona!” Petticoat said, smiling at her. + +“A Bologna! Oh, you horrid thing! But that reminds me I haven't had +sausage lately. I must speak to cook. Now, about my party.” + +“Have a good one while you're about it. I might import a Spanish +Ballet--” + +“You might do nothing of the sort! This is to be my party, and I shall +run it to suit myself.” + +“All right, Tutti Frutti; you have no subtlety or poetry in your +soul--indeed, I doubt if you have a soul--but you're a dear and a +sweet--” + +“Bill, I've an idea! Build bureaus right down to the floor and then +collar buttons can't roll under them!” + +“Fine idea! Better patent it. Must go. Goodby.” + +“Wait a minute. Mrs. Holm Boddy is coming to see me to-day. What's she +like?” + +“Oh, she's a hen-minded Hetty with cabriole legs. Don't bother with her +much. They're lower case people--tin pergola and pebble garden sort. And +early Victorian bathrooms. You won't like her--freeze her out.” + +“All righty. Say--Billy dear--has you any choclums?” + +“Not for little gourmands,” he took her in his arms. “I say, Warbie, you +promised to cut out sweets. Look here.” + +He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning +ancestors looked down in painted disapproval. + +They were all slender--wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a fatty +in the bunch. + +Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale. + +“I don't care!” Warble exploded, angrily. “If you don't give me enough +to eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And +you needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care _that_ for +them!” + +She snapped a dimpled pink thumb and forefinger at the whole exhibit, +made a face at the skinniest one of all, and then sneaked casually into +Bill's arms. + +“Nice, nice,” she cooed, patting his mastoid process. “Run along now, +and I'll plan my party.” + +* * * * * + +“That Boddy woman,” remarked Beer, as she dressed Warble; “she is a +pest--a pill! Wait, Maddum, I beg you! I've only rouged one of your +cheeks!” + +“That's enough,” said Warble, inattentively, and she danced down stairs +to freeze out her caller. + +“I've been meaning to come for some time,” Mrs. Holm Boddy said, “but I +thought I'd give you a chance to get a little used to your new grandeur. +Quite a change for you, isn't it?” + +“No,” said Warble, “it's rather a come down. I've always been very +grand. Tell me about yourself.” + +“Oh, I'm the old-fashioned wife and mother. Devoted to my home, and my +family. I deplore the modern tendency to neglect one's own fireside.” + +“Yes, I should think you'd be happier there than anywhere else.” + +Warble gazed at her guest. She was a tall, angular woman, so gaunt that +her bones rattled. Warble wondered if Bill would really like her to be +like that. + +“Oh, I am. My dear husband, my darling children--you ought to have a lot +of children, Mrs. Petticoat.” + +“Yes, I shall, when we can afford it. My husband isn't very well off +just now, you see.” + +“You live very extravagantly. Look at those rugs, now. Rugs cost +fearfully.” + +“Don't you have any?” + +“Oh, no. We don't waste money that way.” + +“Bare floors?” + +“No, carpets. More homey, you know. Nice Brussels in the parlor--real +Body Brussels--Bigelow--and in the bedrooms, Ingrain. Oh, the hominess +of a new-laid Ingrain carpet, with lots of fresh straw under it! You +acquainted with Avery Goodman, the Rector?” + +“I've met him.” + +“Splendid man-spiritual-minded and all that. Fine preacher, too. Very +soulful. I often sob right through his sermons. Better go hear him.” + +“My husband is a busy man--we haven't time for church.” + +“No, spose not. Doctors are kept on the jump. Specially specialists. And +I know your husband is busy. Say, is there any truth in the report that +he pays the grocers and delicatessen men to get--you know--doubtful +canned goods, and not too fresh sea foods and all that--so there'll be +more ptomaine cases?” + +“What a good idea!” Warble cried. “I had not heard of it, but if Bill +does that he's more efficient than I thought him!” + +“I spose he's terribly in love with you?” + +“Bill? Oh, yes. We adore each other.” + +“I didn't know. The Petticoats are all so thin--” + +“Yes, a change is always pleasant.” Warble gave her engaging smile. + +“Maybe. That Daisy Snow now--she's so pretty _and_ slender. Dr. +Petticoat seems mighty fond of her.” + +“Well, you know what doctors are. Nice to everybody, of course. There's +no telling who'll have ptomaine poisoning next.” + +“Oh, yes, you can always tell that. It's sure to be Iva Payne. She's +awful attractive, too. You must be worried about your man, Mrs. +Petticoat.” + +“I do worry a lot. It keeps my flesh down. Tell me more to worry about.” + +“Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of +your own?” + +“Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right.” + +“You are! Why, where did your husband get you?” + +“He got me out of a mail catalogue.” Warble made a face at her. “Must +you go, Mrs. Boddy?” she rose. “I won't ask you to come again, as I know +how you love your own home and fireside. Goodby.” + +Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out +of the front door and slammed it after her. + +“That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul,” she said, as +she went down to see the cook about the sausage. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her +party should be a success. + +In the morning she interviewed the cook. + +“You can spread yourself on the feast, François,” she said, “have +any old menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But +especially I want you to make for me one hundred custard pies.” + +The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his +duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish. + +“But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a crême paté?” + +“No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard +pie--see? _Pie_! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! +Get out of my way, I'll make them myself!” + +Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job +and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she +herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust. + +Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen +custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows. + +“Not to be served with the supper,” Warble warned the butler, “when I +want them brought in I'll tell you.” + +Beer dressed Warble for the party, Petticoat standing by and advising. + +The gown was a few wisps of henna-colored chiffon which fitfully blew, +half concealed, half disclosed a scant slip of jade green satin. + +Flesh-colored stockings, Petticoat decreed, and henna slippers with +carved jade buckles. + +“Now, her hair--” he mused, leaning on his folded arms over the back of +a chair. + +He walked slowly round Warble. + +“Oh, wopse it up anyway,” he said, “and tangle some jade beads in it. +She'll stand that.” + +His orders were carried out and Beer clasped her hands in silent ecstasy +at the result of the combined efforts of herself and her master. + +“Some day, Warble,” Bill said, “I'll teach you how to dress becomingly.” + +“And I'll teach you how to undress becomingly,” said Beer, not wanting +to be outclassed in her own game. + +Warble waved Petticoat out of the room, dismissed Beer with a simple +“Get out!” and then quickly flung off the clothes she wore and hopped +into a little frock of white organdie and cherries. + +She wadded some hair over each ear, piled up the rest in a moppy coil +and crowned it with a wreath of cherries. + +The party came. + +“Good Heavens!” Warble thought, as she looked at the smart, bored crowd, +“have I got to bring these hifalutin creatures down to earth? I don't +know that I can make them laugh, but I'll give them a jolt!” + +She did. + +Her cherries bobbing, two long-stemmed ones held between her teeth, she +flew around like a hen with its head off. + +“You see,” she explained, “it's a Mack Sennett party, everybody puts +things down everybody's back. Like this--and here are the things.” + +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. They had to put them down the backs of the men +only, because the fashionably dressed ladies hadn't any backs to put +them down. You can't put an oyster down two crossed strings of pearls. + +It caused great hilarity to see the Reverend Goodman standing on his +head, trying to lose a red-hot silver dollar; and Daisy Snow, whose +débutante frock was available for the purpose, wriggled beneath the +tickling crawling of a large but harmless spider. + +Warble was almost in hysterics over the funny antics of Goldwin +Leathersham down whose loose and ample collar she had herself poured a +glass of water on two seidlitz powders. + +“Next,” she cried, clapping her hands, “we'll have an artistic game. +Here it comes.” + +Lackeys and minions brought in pails of kalsomine, of various tints, +some of pale pastel shades, others of deep rich hues. One was given to +each guest, and each was provided with a beautiful new whitewash brush. + +“Now,” Warble explained, her blue eyes dimpling with delight, “you each +make a splash on the wall--a big, hit-or-miss splash. Then we each try +to evolve a lovely picture by few bold strokes.” + +This was great fun. + +Manley Knight, with a mighty splash of color that landed on a Fragonard +panel, had quite a good start for a “Storm at Sea.” He worked it up with +fine technique and you would have been surprised at the result. + +Iva Payne took a splash from several different pails thereby achieving a +Cubist landscape. It was entitled “High Tide off the Three-mile Limit,” + and was a startling success. + +Daisy Snow, timid little dear, made but a tiny daub and worked it up +carefully. + +“That,” she said, “is a miniature of Big Bill.” + +All in all, it was gay sport, and even Mrs. Charity Givens took part, +though she protested she was no artist and couldn't even draw a straight +line. + +The next performance was a contest between Adam Goodsport and Avery +Goodman. + +Bets were made on the two contestants before the betters knew what the +scrap was to be. + +“It's a character sketch,” Warble explained. “Mr. Goodsport tries to +blacken Mr. Goodman's character, while the Rector tries to whiten Mr. +Goodsport's character.” + +Avery Goodman was then presented with a bag of flour and Adam Goodsport +was handed a bag of soot. + +They went at it hand over fist, and in a few moments the blacking +and whiting process was so complete that both were pronounced perfect +transformations and all bets were off. + +Faces, hands and clothes were alike befloured and besooted, until +Goodman was a veritable Blackamoor while Adam Goodsport looked like a +Marcelline. + +A few eyebrows indicated a suspicion that Big Bill Petticoat's bride was +a Little Mischief, but nobody said anything about it. + +“If I can only reform them,” Warble thought to herself, “if I can only +make them like and enjoy this innocent fun instead of wearing their poor +brains out over capitalled Art and Literature.” + +“Now,” she said, briskly, “we're going to play a game I learned in +Shanghai. All take off your shoes and stockings. No one excused--come +on--off with them.” + +Beer and a few other maids came in to assist the ladies, the men were +properly valeted, and the barefooted crowd sat waiting further orders. + +Daisy Snow made a remark about being a maiden with reluctant feet, but +nobody noticed it. + +Several seemed rather relieved than otherwise at the condition imposed +upon them. + +“Now,” said Warble, but before she could go further, Adam Goodsport +butted in with: + +“Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat--oh, please! Such an opportunity! May never +occur again! Oh, can't I--may I not--oh, dear lady, do say yes--” + +“Lordy, what do you want to do? Speak out, man!” + +“Why, you see, I am a solist--like a palmist you know--but as to feet. +I studied solistry in Asia Minor and I know it from the ground up. Oh, +please, Mrs. Petticoat, let me read your sole!” + +“Do,” cried Warble, “love to have you.” + +She plumped herself into a pillowed divan, and held her little pink feet +straight out in front of her. + +Goodsport, sitting on a cushion at her feet, took one and scrutinized +the sole. + +“The Solar system,” he began, “is interesting in the extreme. It was +invented by Solon, though Platoe also theorized on the immortality of +the sole. His ideas, however have been discarded by modern footmen. + +“Locke, is his treatise On the Human Understanding, discusses the +subject fully and with many footnotes, and old Samuel Foote himself cast +footlights on the subject.” + +“Now, looky here,” Warble objected, “I won't have a lecture in my house! +I object to anything of an intellectural nature.” + +“This has nothing to do with the intellect,” Adam assured her. “Quite +the reverse, now, you listen. It's really interesting. The palmist may +claim to read the true character from the lines of the hand, but it is +only by solistry that the real sole is laid bare and the character of +a subject in any walk of life is exposed. The lines of the sole are +greatly indicative of character, for all traits must draw the line +somewhere. Now, Mrs. Petticoat, this line extending from the Mount of +Trilby to the outer side of the sole is the life line. If that appears +to be broken it indicates future death. If more pronounced on one sole +than the other, it implies that the subject has one foot in the grave. +You haven't, don't be alarmed. Here is the headline, straight and +continuous, showing a long and level head.” + +“Ouch,” remarked Warble, “you tickle. Try somebody else,” and she drew +her feet under her. + +“Me,” exclaimed Daisy Snow, coming over and holding out her dainty right +foot. + +“H'm,” said Goodsport. “This line running from the Mount of Cinderella +to the heel is the clothes line and denotes love of dress. This line +crossing it is the fish line and shows you are incapable of telling the +truth.” + +Daisy flounced away, mad, and Mrs. Charity Givens, with some +trepidation, offered her ample and generous foot for dissection. + +“A thorough, broad understanding and a friendly footing toward all,” + declared the solist, “and no danger of misunderstanding. However, your +broken headline indicates pugnacity.” + +“Nothing of the sort!” she snapped at him, and waddled away. + +Goldwin Leathersham, greatly interested, insisted on having his pedal +interpreted. + +“Mount of Atalanta highly prominent,” said Goodsport, “that means +you are a runner, either for office or for pleasure. Here is a line +meeting--that indicates a railroad man. H'm. A well-developed football +shows you have been to college. You seem to be inclined to solemates--” + +But Leathersham had taken to his heels. + +“Please,” said Iva Payne, gracefully offering her long psychic foot for +perusal. + +“Ah, the poetic foot!” the soloist exclaimed. “There are two kinds +of poetic feet--the Iambic and the Trochaic. You have one of each. In +poetic feet the heels are often found in French forms. But poets are +a footloose class and are often found with lame and halting feet. You +don't seem to be a poet.” + +“Never said I was,” retorted Iva, shortly, and Warble said, “Stop this +nonsense, it makes too much kicking. Now we're going to play the game I +learned in Buda Pesth.” + +She led them to the picture gallery which had been prepared for the game +by having many sheets of fly-paper placed on the floor, sticky side up. + +“It's Fly-paper Tag,” she said. + +It _was_ Fly-paper Tag--she was quite right. + +“You're it!” screamed Mrs. Givens as she pushed the minister over onto a +sheet of fly-paper. + +“It yourself,” shrieked Leathersham adroitly shoving a sheet where he +saw Mrs. Givens would light next. + +* * * * * + +Warble was certain she was a great reformer. + +Yet would these reformed people stay reformed? + +True, they were now in the spirit of her party, Mack Sennett himself +couldn't have asked a better interpretation of his own vital principles. +But had they come to realize that this after all was the real thing, the +true ideal? + +Warble feared. + +* * * * * + +They were a stuck-up lot. The fly-paper had intrigued them all. 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. Judge Drinkwater folded Daisy Snow's two little +hands together, then wrapped them tightly in fly-paper, and shook with +laughter to see her futile attempts to get free. + +“Naughty man!” she cried, “to make poor little me so helpless!” With +a spring she flung her entangled hands over the Judge's head, and hung +round his neck like a pretty little millstone. + +Warble relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired and very hungry. + +But she was the stuff of which true reformers are made and Martin Luther +had nothing on her. + +Then Beer came tripping in with a pile of varicolored garments which she +held up to view. + +“These,” Warble announced, “are the real Mack Sennett costumes. They +are one-piece bathing suits, I got them from an importer of contraband +goods. You are to put them on in place of your clothes. And please +forget that you are Butterflies and turn into bathing beauties and +champion swimmers.” + +While they were shyly getting into the suits, she donned her own, a +little scalloped apron effect, with cross-strapped sandals, and a silk +bandanna knotted round her head. + +She glanced about and saw Big Bill Petticoat beaming with proud glee at +his wife's social success, and looking lovely himself in a black satin +one-piece, with jet shoulder straps. + +For a second Warble could see only Petticoat's pink cheeks and perfected +eyebrows. Then she shook off the spell and keyed up. + +“We're going to have an obstacle race,” she announced, “all over the +house. You must follow me, wherever I go. I shall lead you a dance! And +then I shall come last to the lake in the front hall, and whoever is +nearest me there, will be rewarded.” + +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. + +She flew past Petticoat, only pausing to shout, “Like it all, my tramp? +Yes, it _is_ an expensive party.” + +Then she led her followers a mad race. Sliding down banisters, squeezing +into dumb waiters; crawling under beds and out the other side; jumping +in and out again of bathtubs full of perfumed water. Out of windows, in +at scuttles. Through booby-traps of half-open doors, on the lintel of +which were perched pans full of live crabs or little boxes of mice. + +On rushed the horde, Mrs. Givens panting from over exertion, Goldie +Leathersham limping because of a crab hanging to his great toe. + +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. + +Wherefore Trymie's soft plop into the oily depths was of a ludicrous +nature. + +Then the guests were allowed to resume their own clothes and supper was +announced. + +Conversation turned to art matters, and Leathersham who was a collector +of many various rarities asked Petticoat how his new collection was +progressing. The collection was one of early American Pieplates. + +“Doing well,” Big Bill answered. “I have just achieved a yellow earthen +John Adams, that is authentic and very rare. Except for my Barbara +Frietchie tin one, it is perhaps the gem of my collection.” + +“Good!” Leathersham exclaimed, interestedly, “may I see it?” Petticoat +summoned a lackey and two minions and sent them to his curio room to +fetch the plates. But they returned with the startling announcement that +all the pieplate collection had disappeared! + +“Heavens and earth!” Petticoat cried. “Lock the doors, search the +pockets! Why, that collection is worth millions!” + +“What's the matter?” Warble inquired, seeing the hullaballoo. “Oh,” as +she was told, “I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and +our pieplates gave out.” + +“Making a lot of pies?” Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold +Leathersharn murmured, “How quaint!” in a supercilious way. + +“Yes,” went on Warble, unperturbed. “Want to see 'em?” + +They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the +pantry windows. + +“Whoopee!” shouted Petticoat, “here's where I take the helm! Cut out the +rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest.” + +It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with +this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their +terrible aestheticism at last? + +Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over +the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. “Oh,” she cried, astounded. +“I wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just +eating what I wanted.” + +“You're a dear,” Marigold Leathersham said to her. “I'm going to love +you. How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing.” + +“Yes, he does.” Warble stated. “At least, he says so.” + +“He's a truthful man,” Marigold declared, “you'd know that just to look +at him. There's something in his face just now--” + +“It's pie,” said Warble, “he's very fond of it.” + +To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final +entertainment. + +“Folks,” she said, “this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be +complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides.” + +Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they +chose sides. + +The party being thus divided, they bombarded each other with custard +pies after the manner of certain comedians, till there wasn't a round of +ammunition left. + +Then Iva Payne said she felt sick and wanted to go home and of course +just for that they all had to go. + +“The nicest party ever!” they chorused at parting. “So novel and +_naïve_--so quite entirely out of the ordinary.” + +As the last pied guest disappeared she turned wearily to her Petticoat. + +“I tell you, Warb,” he said, “you are sure one corker! You put 'em to +sleep all right! Now you've shown 'em how, you bet they won't go on +having their stupid highbrow intellectural old gatherings. Hop along to +bed, little tired Lollipop.” + +His long lithe arms gathered her forcefully to him, and her irritation +at his strength was lost in her admiration of his grace and skill in +imparting affection. + +* * * * * + +From _The Butterfly Centerpiece_: + +The Mack Sennett party at the home of Dr. Bill Petticoat was a hundred +per cent success. Little Lady Petticoat is nobody's fool. She knows that +a lucky punch is her only chance. A short, swift hook, straight from the +shoulder. The pretty Warble is a perpetual promise of joy, yet she shows +symptoms of curvature of the soul--and it is, so far, a toss-up whether +she will have her passport _viséd_ or be given the gate. + +* * * * * + +The week after, the Leathershams gave a party. The gilt-chaired audience +listened to Sable Caviaro the new Russian violinist and Slubber D. +Gullion, who discoursed on the Current Trend of Current Bolshe Vikings. + +The refreshing episode consisted of champagne and Saratoga chips. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +The Restless Sexteen was the record altitude of Butterfly Center. It was +the elect and select of the intellect; it was the whole show--the very +Wholly of Whollies. To belong to it was canonization. Though some of its +members also belonged to the Toddletopsis Club, it meant their leading a +double life. + +The Restless Sexteen were mostly young married women with their husbands +as nonresident members. + +They studied higher psychology and broader psychopathy. The wrestled +with and threw Einstein and let themselves dream again with Freud. +Psychoanalysis was their washpot, and over the fourth dimension did they +cast their shoes. + +Their afternoon digest was held at Faith Loveman's and Warble went. + +The Loveman home was an abstract bungalow, which showed rather plainly +the iron hand in the velvet glove influence of the Japanese. + +The large light hall had a built-in abstract table, and on this was an +enormous bronze plaque which held a thin layer of water on which rested +one pansy. + +Faith's devotion to the Doctrine of Elimination allowed nothing else +in the hall, but in the living room there were three whole pieces of +furniture besides, of course, the caterer's gilt chairs brought in to +hold the restless sex as they tried to rest from their restlessness. + +Faith Loveman looked curiously at Warble. + +“You can't be very restless,” she observed, “you'd be thinner.” + +Warble smiled engagingly. + +“I do want to be thinner,” she conciliated, “how can I?” + +And, somehow, that started them all off. They restlessly gave advice, +recommended certain exercises, uncertain drugs and most unattractive +diets. + +They told their own experiences, extolled or berated their masseuses, +scribbled addresses of corsetieres for one another, and in their +interest and restless excitement they forgot all about Warble and she +wanted to go home. + +But she had her mission to perform, and she waited until they restlessly +changed the subject. + +They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than +the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin +Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she +understand. + +“Are you of the cognoscenti?” asked Faith Loveman of Warble. “I know +all about art but I don't know what I like,” she returned, blushing +prettily. + +“Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to +find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in +our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the +pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble +that breaks. We need an outlet--a vent--you understand?” + +“Yop,” said Warble, “your soul pressure is too high.” + +“But we want it high--we love it high--we're restless--we're keyed up, +taut-strung, and hungry for soul food.” + +“I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings.” + +Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went +home. + +* * * * * + +She reflected. + +“It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I +knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems. A big one seems to +be how to get thin and how to stay so. They were all ready to drop the +high sign babble for that! But all women are. They took it up again. + +“Can I reform them? Or shall I be sucked in, like Italians eat +spaghetti, and my personality absorbed by the Butterflies, till I +forswear all I stand for--all my utilitarian ideals shattered, all my +prosaic hopes dashed, all my common sense wrenched from me, and my +poor little brain-pan filled with the soul-mash of these high-strung +sexaphones?” + +She ignored Beer's offer to undress her, she ran upstairs to an +unfrequented bathroom, and flinging off her clothes, she got into the +tub and wept in terror, her body a round pink blob in the briny water. + +But, thought the poor child, it's the most sensible place to cry. + +When Petticoat came home she said: + +“Honeybunch, let me in on your professional secrets. Tell me more about +your most interesting cases. It might make me restless.” + +“Nothing much to tell. Life just one ptomaine after another. Cases all +alike except for the primal cause.” + +“Well, tell me something. Where've you been just now?” + +“Over to Iva's. She had 'em again. Ripe olives. Getting better. Where +you been?” + +“To the Restless Sexteen Club.” + +“Like it?” + +“I don't get it. They talk about things that aren't there. But I think I +could make them see--” + +“Oh, cut it out, Warble. You'd dust books so hard, you'd dust off the +gilt edges. They're deep-sea thinkers, that bunch--let 'em alone. What'd +they talk about?” + +“About a book called 'Painted Shawls' or something, and about +Thyco-Serapy, and about a play called 'The Housebroke Heart.' Take me to +see it, will you, Bill?” + +“You wouldn't like it. You'd prefer the movies.” + +* * * * * + +Four days later, Daisy Snow called and gave Warble a jolt or two. + +“Huh, sizing me up, are they?” Warble sniffed. “Looking at me through +the footle, distorted little microscope of their own silly scrubby +little souls! Pooh, they couldn't, one of them, make a decent puff +paste!” + +“But we can get cooks to do that. The Intelligentsia seek for the rare +essence of thought, for colored words and perfumed cadences--” + +“There, there, Daisy, don't try me too far! What did Lotta Munn say +about me?” + +“Oh, she didn't say much. Just that you're too stout and you haven't +any ideals and you don't know a picture from a hole in the wall, and she +thinks a man like Dr. Petticoat is wasted on you.” + +“Huh, she used to like Bill herself, didn't she?” + +“Does yet. She's poisoned nearly as often as Iva Payne is.” + +“H'm; anybody else after Bill?” + +“Only May Young.” + +“And you.” + +“Oh, me! I'm just a débutante. I'm not after anybody yet.” + +“Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is +mine--and I won't stand for any nonsense about that.” + +“My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says +you haven't any.” + +“She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?” + +“They made fun of your party--” + +“Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!” + +“They thought those bathing suits were--er--rather bizarre--” + +“I _didn't_ get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. And +they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect.” + +* * * * * + +Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands +and knees. + +It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, +dead these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a _chaise +longue_, absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more +hair out of each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely +architectural viewpoint. + +“What's the trouble?” Warble asked, “broken down arches?” + +“Nope, guess they're all right.” + +“Say, Bill,” and she crept into the hollow of his chest, “are folks +talking about me?” + +“They sure are.” + +“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. Besides, I like Iva better.” + +“Oh, Bill, don't you love me any more?” + +“Course I do, Little Fudge Sundae. But a popular doctor has +responsibilities.” + +“I know. I don't mean to be unreasonable. But let's keep peace in the +family as long as it's convenient--see what I mean?” + +“I see. Do you think I'd like my new pajims better trimmed with frilled +malines, or just decorated with a conventional pattern of gold soutache +braid?” + +Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated _chaise longue_ +made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little. + +Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing +gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through +“What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare,” wound his watch, put out his +Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and +back, and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on +his heels. + +But until he bawled, “Aren't you ever going to clear out?” she sat, +unmoving. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The +stories she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an “Oh, my +dear, I can't tell you _that_ one--it's _too_ awful!” + +Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the +point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty. + +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. Charity Givens had heard she was a great heiress, and meant +to stick her for a new hospital. That Le Grand Paynter wanted to do her +portrait, life size and full width, and that the Reverend Avery Goodman +said she was very light on her feet for a fat woman. + +The last made Warble mad and she made a face at Lotta and sent her home. + +* * * * * + +A rose-colored June day. Meringues of cloud floating on a sky of +cerulean custard. + +She crawled out for a walk. It was ninety-eight in the shade, too hot to +run much. + +She walked down Ptomaine Street, her nose shining, and pearly drops +chasing each other down her back like rain on a car window pane. + +In her tucked white dimity and ankle-ties, her pink sunbonnet and her +tiny, frilled parasol, she was as much out of place in the aesthetic +town as whipped cream on a grapefruit. + +She circled the outskirts of the town, and noted the massive and +imposing gateways to the great estates. She knew the grandeur inside, +she had been there. Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian +steppes, and in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an +Egyptian temple excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with +difficulty and at great expense had buried there. + +She did not know what to do about it. + +She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of +their homes. Yet she couldn't let it go on--this gigantic inutility, +this mammoth lack of practical, efficient management. + +Why, the ground sunk in a sunken garden would raise crops enough to feed +an army--and Lord knew how soon they might be needed. + +And then she happened to think that reform, like charity should begin at +home, and she decided to start in on Petticoat. + +She did. + +* * * * * + +They were sitting in their home-like Tower of Jewels, and, a bit +timidly, Warble said, “Let's pote quoetry to each other.” + +Poor child, nervousness or emotion always made her reverse her initial +letters. + +“All right,” Petticoat returned, good naturedly, “you begin.” + +Just what Warble wanted! Fate was always good to her. + +“I will, because I hope to reform your tastes, dear, and teach you to +see the beauty of simple beautiful poetry. Listen to this: + + “Weep and the world weeps with you, + Laugh and you laugh alone--” + +“That'll do, Warb. Don't go too far. Now it's my turn. But, you know, +dear, quoting isn't everything. You must learn to dissect, to interpret, +and above all to trace the influences that swayed the poet. + +“Now I'll read you a poem picked at random, and then I'll trace the +influences for you.” + +Petticoat reached out a languid arm, picked up a current magazine and +read: + + “'FULFILMENT + + 'Here, at your delicate bosom, let death + Come to me + Where night has made a warm Elysium, + Lulled by a soft, invisible sea. + + 'Now in the porches of your soul I stand + Where once I stood; + Fed and forgiven by a liberal hand, + My broken boyhood is renewed. + + 'You are my bread and honey, set among + A grove of spice; + An ever brimming cup; a lyric sung + After the thundering battle-cries. + + 'You are my well-loved earth, forever fresh, + Forever prodigal, forever fond, + As, from the sweet fulfilment of the flesh, + I reach beyond.'” + +Noting that Warble was still awake, Petticoat discoursed: + +“In the first line, we note the influence of Swinburne. There could be +no better start out. The Swinburne collocation of delicate bosom and +death is both arrestive and interesting. The third and fourth lines +denote the influence of Poe. To be sure, 'a warm Elysium' sounds like +a new and appetizing soft drink, but that is not what is meant; and the +sea is indubitably the one that sounded around the tomb of Miss Annabel +Lee. + +“The second stanza opens under pure Tennysonian influences. This may +not be clear at first to the beginner in influence tracing, but it +is unmistakably so to the expert. The recurring sibilants, the sound +without sense, the fine architectural imagery, all point to the great +Lady Alfred. The latter half of this stanza is due entirely to the +strong influence of D. W. Griffith. The poem was, without doubt, written +after the poet had been to see 'Broken Blossoms,' and the liberal +hand from which that production was flung to a waiting world left its +ineffaceable finger-prints on his polished mind. + +“Now we come to stanza three. The first line shows the influence of +Mother Goose; the second is an unconscious echo of Solomon's Song; the +ever-brimming cup owes itself to Omar; and the rest of the stanza to +Rupert Brooke. + +“Thus we see the importance of widespread reading, and a catholicity of +influences. + +“Influence is wonderful! To invent a new simile, it is like a pebble +dropped into a placid lake; the ripples form ever-widening circles, and +the influence of an influence is never wholly lost. + +“Perhaps--and this is quite as it should be--the final stanza is the +finest of all. It starts out under the influences of Walt Whitman. Had +Walt been omitted, the whole structure would have tumbled to the ground! +No self-respecting poet now-a-days writes without being influenced by +Whitman. It isn't done. It would be as indiscreet as to appear in one's +shirt-sleeves. The influence of the good, gray Poet _must_ be felt, must +be _shown_, or the budding bard is out of the running. Only a dash +of Whitman is needed--'my well-loved earth' and 'prodigal' are quite +sufficient. + +“'The sweet fulfilment of the flesh' is a final roundup that gracefully +blends Whitman's and Ella Wheeler Wilcox's influential powers--and, +incidentally, justifies the magnificent title of the poem. + +“Then, as a crowning triumph, note the splendid last line, a masterpiece +brought about by the influence of Sir Oliver Lodge and his spiritistic +ilk! Could anything be finer? What imagery for a last line! What a +break-off, leaving the gasping reader in a state of choking suspense, +of avid, ungratified curiosity! A great poem indeed, and influenced by a +noble army of writers. + +“Nor is the manner of the thing all that matters. The theme--the great +idea of the whole affair--is a marvelous example of influence. The New +York State Legislature recently passed a bill making attempted suicide +no longer a punishable offense. If successful, it is, like virtue, +its own reward. Indeed, it has to be, for as the Penal Code distinctly +states, owing to the impossibility of reaching the successful +perpetrator no forfeiture is imposed. But the new law lifts the ban from +futile efforts in the matter of self-destruction, and one need not pay +the hitherto exacted fine of a thousand dollars by way of a luxury tax +on such diversion. + +“Can it be doubted, then, that our Poet read of this new law, and--it +may be unconsciously--was so influenced by it that he devoted sixteen +lines of his precious verse to the expression of his willingness to let +death come to him?” + +“I don't blame him for being willing, and I wouldn't put a straw in +Death's way,” said Warble, earnestly. “I'm glad you read me that, Bill, +for that is just the sort of thing I mean to eradicate from your system. +It's like a disease, this aestheticism of yours--it's the Culture +Ptomaine.” + +“Now, hold on, Dumpling Dear, do you know a culture from a ptomaine?” + +“Oh, I don't mean the cultures you take, I mean Culture with a big C. +It's a poison, and as you cure ptomaine poisoning, I'm going to cure +this town of its deadly art poisoning. I'm in revolt.” + +“That's right, everybody who is anybody is in revolt against something +nowadays, because our knowledge of the truth is too great for our +existing conditions, and it bursts--” + + “Like poor Betsy Binn, who was so very pure within, + She burst this outer shell of sin, + And hatched herself a cherubim!” + +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. + + * * * * * + +She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's. + +Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the +moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called +Seven Hills. + +Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of +Constantine and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the +entrance patio. + +“Hello, Pot Pie,” screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, “come on in, the +firewater's fine.” + +It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged +Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as +they spun the Toddletops. + +Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others +kindly instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some +other devices of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name. + +Also, there were tables, where those who chose played high-staked +bridge, poker or rum. + +Warble wasn't a born gambler. Games of chance had no appeal for her. She +wanted to make faces at everybody and run away. But she scolded herself +for being too superior and forced herself to stay with the bunch. + +In a way, she was rewarded, for she won all the money from the others. +Her luck was monumental. 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. But it didn't mean +a thing to Warble, for the man was so saturated with art that it oozed +forth in his conversation and she had no idea what he was driving at. + +He went home thinking she was the most deliciously tempting morsel he +had ever seen and the biggest fool. + + * * * * * + +“No, I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, as a gift-book, but +he's no man. Could I kiss him? Not with a real movie kiss. + +“They say marriage is a lottery. I haven't drawn much. I mean in the +matter of love. I wish I had a Prince Charming. Bill would do, all +right, but he thinks I'm too fat. I wish I could get thinner--all of +them are. Lotta's like a golf club and Daisy's like a breadstick. + +“I s'pose they were born that way. + +“I wasn't. + +“I wonder when we'll begin to keep a family. + +“I'm crazy about Bill--I am--I am-- + +“Am I? + +“All the girls are, too. + +“Does he care for them? For any of them? For all of them? + +“For that detestable Daisy? That disgusting Iva? That rotten Lotta! + +“Oh, I may as well admit it--I just adore Bill! + +“This frock is too tight--I must have it stretched. + +“Yes, I'm mad over my husband--but--” + + * * * * * + +She sought Petticoat in his rooms. + +She tumbled into his lap, and he pushed her out until he could set aside +the Angora cat and the Airedale and his pet guinea pig, then he said +politely, “Is this your seat?” and she perched on his knee. + +“Do you love me, dear?” she asked, her voice full of a dumb pathos. + +“Ooooooooooooooooooo! I'm sleepy,” he said, with a cavernous yawn and a +Herculean stretch that threw her out on the floor. “Want any money?” She +looked at him. He was not unlike John Barrymore in The Jest, and Warble +fell for him afresh. + +“You are so beautiful--” she wailed. “I wish you loved me--” + +“I wish I did,” he returned, honestly, “but you are such a butter-ball.” + +“Oh, Butterfly Thenter calls anybody Butter-ball who weights over +ninety-five! If you're so cut up about it I won't live under this roof +another minute! I can earn my own living, and all I want, too! You can +get a divorce and marry some thread of a woman who has ptomaines all the +time!” + +“Pish, tush, Warb, don't be a damfool! Lay off the melodrama. I do love +you--at least, I love ninety-five pounds of you. Now, will you be good?” + +“Yeth.” + +“And will you try to think of me as a devoted and loving husband, even +if I'm not one?” + +“Oh, my dear, I am unjust to you! I will take what you give me--what you +can spare from the little dog and the cat and the guinea pig. And I will +be your own little Petty Warblecoat. And I won't give you over to Iva +Payne--I hate her!” + + + + +CHAPTER X + +The mail. + +The Petticoats rarely received mail. It wasn't done much in Butterfly +Center. So unaesthetic. + +On a tray, a lacquered lackey brought a letter to Warble. + +A white letter. Large and square--ominously square. + +Warble took tray and all and went with it to Petticoat's rooms--the +letter was addressed to him. + +She tapped but there was no answer. Listening at the door, she could +hear him splashing in his rock-hewn bath and leaping, chamois-like, from +crag to crag of his quarried bathroom. + +She sat down on the floor and waited. Petticoat's toilets were like +linked sweetness, long drawn out. + +It was late afternon, before he emerged, fresh, roseate and smiling, +and imprinted a kiss on Warble's cheek that left the red stamp of a +lip-sticked mouth. Warble sometimes thought if it could be arranged as a +dating stamp, she could keep a record of when he had last kissed her. + +Poor little Warble--she loved her Big Bill so fondly, and he only looked +on her as something fatter than his dog, a little bigger than his cat. +Timidly she proffered the trayed letter. + +“Oh, my Heavens!” and Petticoat smote himself, hip and thigh. “Where +did you get this? Why was I not told sooner of its arrival? To me! And +postmarked Lake Skoodoow-abskoosis! Home of my ancestors! Woman! Why +this delay? _Why_?” + +“It came this morning,” said Warble, apologetically, “but you were in +your bath, and the door was locked.” + +“But this is a most important letter. Why didn't you slip it under the +door?” + +“I couldn't,” said Warble, simply, “it was on a tray.” + +“As I hoped--I mean, feared--” exclaimed Petticoat, tearing the envelope +from the sheet, “he is dead!” + +It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope--she always slit +them neatly with a paper-knife--but she was thrilled by Petticoat's +excitement. + +“A fortune!” he exclaimed. “My revered ancestor, the oldest of the +Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! +Now we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, +too! Oh, Warble, ain't we got fun!” + +He danced about the room, in his blue burnous and red tarbush, looking +more like a howling dervish than a tempestuous Petticoat. + +Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice--and perhaps she could +reform that more easily than she could older people. + +“All right,” she said, “and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns +of shuffy fliffon--I mean, fliffy shuffon, no--shiffy fluffon--oh, +pleathe--pleathe--” + +Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, +but Petticoat didn't notice her. + +“I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard,” he mused, “he'll know. +The last man I sent to Spain for a casemented façade, brought home a +temple! But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run +over just now--” + + * * * * * + +The baby was coming. + +Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She +sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris +powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca +Delia Robbia and Fra Angelico. + +Also a few influential Madonnas. + + * * * * * + +The Butterflies came in with advice. Marigold Leathersham was dubious +about the wisdom of the plan, but brought a pillow of antique rose +point, filled with ostrich plumes. + +Mrs. Holm Boddy rushed over with a copy of _Poems Every Expectant Mother +Ought to Know_, and Lotta Munn sent a card of diamond safety pins. + +Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling +downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence +didn't amount to much. + +Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of _How to Tell +Your Young_, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and +Faith Loveman sent her own marked copy of _Cooks that Have Helped Me_. + +But Warble made a face at them all, and gave their books to the +Salvation Army and read the Diary of Maggot Somebody. + + * * * * * + +Another fate slather. + +The baby was twins. + +That was the way things came to Warble--fate in big chunks--destiny in +cloudbursts. + +Two little red Petticoats all at once to hang on the ancestral tree. + +But Warble was not caught napping. In her efficient way, she had +provided two bassinets, two nurseries--in fact, she had really provided +three of everything, but the third wasn't needed, and she thriftily +ordered it put aside for the present and for the future. + +Dr. Petticoat was enchanted. + +He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by +the skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on +his offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them +Guelph and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran +off at once to put up their names at various select and inaccessible +clubs. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Petticoat had five hobbies. Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, +Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. + +The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger +days had been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she +flibbered differently now. + +She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. +wing, and permeated the household. + +Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits. Bobbed hair. Smoked cigars. + +About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty. + +Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to +spar with him, being a bit off condition. + +“I've no use for Bill,” she would say, “with his custard pie ideals, his +soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine _lingerie_.” + +Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir. + +She looked at Warble appraisingly. + +“You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a +blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. +You get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. +What do you think of me?” + +Warble made a face at her. “Corking!” screamed Aunt Dressie, “you come +straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?” + +“Not adequately.” + +“H'm. You love him?” + +“Oh, yeth!” + +“All right--love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a +case of ptomaine poisoning--that'd help. But don't take the matter too +lightly. If you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him +go. + +“I've just let mine go. You see we had a place--a sort of Vegetarian and +Free Love Community proposition, but it didn't work out so we sold it.” + +“And your husband?” + +“Oh, he's on his own for a while. I'm deciding what to fly at next. I +always ask nephew Bill's advice so as to know what not to do.” + +“Forgot to mention it,” said Petticoat, strolling in, “but a few people +are coming to-night to help me plan for my new Color Organ.” + +“What's that?” asked Warble, gazing at Petticoat in azure-eyed +adoration. + +“Oh, Lord, don't you know _anything_? Tell her, Aunt Dressie!” and +turning on his French heel, Petticoat walked delicately out of the room. + +“Treat him rough, Warble, you're an awful fool,” commented the older +woman. “Why, a Color Organ is that marvelous new invention that plays +color instead of sound.” + +“Color--instead of--sound--” + +“Yes--now don't try to understand, for you can't possibly. Go and play +with the children.” + +“I won't. Tell me more about this thing.” + +“I won't. You can hear it to-night, when they all talk about it.” + +“What use is it?” + +Aunt Dressie stared at her. “What use are you?” she said. + +Warble's brain stopped beating. + +Bump. + + * * * * * + +What use was she--she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! +What use? Grrrhhh! + +She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the +dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! + +“I don't care! I won't endure it! + +“What's Aunt Dressie anyhow? A military blonde, with glazed chintz +undies! What's Marigold Leathersham? A smart party who wears a hat! + +“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.” + + * * * * * + +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.” + +She flew back to the room where the eager group had their heads together +over the blue prints and wash drawing of the new color organ. Pushing +in between Iva and Lotta she seized Bill by the arm and said, “hurry up +now--matter of life or death--Polly, the maid--dying--urgent case--” + +By that time they were down in the servant's pantry where Polly was +moaning and groaning and wailing like a banshee. + +“What is it, my dear?” Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very +pretty girl. “Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts +and--” + +“That'll do for a beginning,” Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves +and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and +disinfectants. + +“Can you do anything, Bill?” Warble asked anxiously, “it isn't +ptomaines, you know.” + +“That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent +bit of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, +it's more than an earache! The bally ear has been stung--or +something--anything bite you, Polly?” + +“Yes, sir, a wasp.” + +“She says a wathp!” exclaimed Warble. “Oh, Bill, it may mean blood +poisoning!” + +“Yes, that's true--it is--the ear will have to come off. Guess I'd +better call in old Grandberry to operate--he's an ear specialist--” + +“Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!” + +Warble was dancing about in her excitement. “You can do it, Bill.” + +“All right. Get her up on the pastry table--there--that's all right. +Now we'll take her blood pressure--here, Warb, you be taking her +temperature, and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of +instruments--and my X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll +fix you up.” Petticoat lighted a cigarette and sat down to take Polly's +pulse. + +“That's right,” he said to the men who brought the things he had sent +for, “scuttle back for my rubber gloves, and the chloroform outfit. Tell +my man and his helpers to come down--I may need them--and bring me a +clean handkerchief.” + +“Now for an X-ray,” he said, a little later, as he adjusted his portable +X-razor. + +“Oh, it's all done,” said Warble, “While you were taking her plood +bressure, I cut off her ear--” + +“What with?” + +“Oh, I had a boning knife and the sardine scissors. It's all right. And +I've fixed her hair lovely--in a big curly earmuff, so it will never +show at all. Be quiet for a day or so, Polly, and then you'll be all +right. The only trouble is, after this, orders will probably go in one +ear and out the other--” + +“You're a hummer, Warble,” Petticoat said, as they went back up stairs. + +“Yes, it had to be done quickly, you see. And it was out of your line, +so I duffed in. But one thing bothered me a little. You see, the fire +was out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a +lot--something might of blew up.” + +“And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown +up--” + +“Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!” + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Porgie Sproggins. + +Cave man. Brute. + +Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable +Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling. + +Warble saw him first across the room at a picture exhibition in Manley +Knight's gallery. + +His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear--and his complexion +was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy grocers' shops. +A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that sort. He was a +Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and Tarzan. + +Warble flew at him. + +“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! He does +portraits that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the +world agog.” + +Warble drifted back to the attraction. + +“_Do_ like me,” she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from the +blue. + +Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who +could resist her. + +Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, +pressing them back as if he would tear her apart. + +“Let me see your soul!” he demanded, and his great face came near to +peer down through her eyes. + +“Ugh, merely blocked in,” and he flung her from him. + +“It isn't block tin!” she retorted, angrily, “it's pure gold--as you +will find out!” + +He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote +himself to Daisy Snow. + +Bing! That was the way things came to Warble. + +Fate, Kismet, Predestination--whatever it was, it came zip! boom! +hell-for-leather! + +“It's not only his strength but his crudeness--like petroleum or +Egyptian art. + +“He can control-- + +“Amazingly impertinent! + +“He wasn't-- + +“But I wish he had been-- + +“He will be!” + + * * * * * + +She went to see him--in his studio. + +A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt +gimcracks. Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons. + +“Get out,” he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his +niggling at a miniature. + +Warble made a face at him. + +“Do that again,” he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory. + +A few tiny brushmarks. + +A wonder picture of Warble--made face, and all. + +“Pleathe--Pleathe--” she held out her hand, and he dropped the miniature +into it. + +“Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?” he demanded. + +“Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself.” + +“I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare.” + +“Your name? Your silly first name--” + +“It's a nickname.” + +“For what?” + +“Areopagitica.” + +“Sweet--sweet--” cooed Warble, dimpling. + +“Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers--” + +“What!” + +“It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my +life. But to be a ragpicker--ah, there's something to strive for! A +rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a +galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines--whoa!--giddap, +there! oh--Warble, come with me!” + +He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and +running around, faced him impishly. + +“Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in +the rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?” + +“No, better stay here--” he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a deep +purple bruise. + +“Why?” + +“Better not stay here--better go home.” + +“Why?” + +“Goodby.” + +He took her up--it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger--and +set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it. + + * * * * * + +She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she +paused to look in at his door, greeted her: + +“Had a good time?” + +She could not answer. + +He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his +wringing wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. + +“Gooooo--oooo--oo--d night,” he said. + +That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. + + * * * * * + +A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling +smattering with a brute beast. + +“No, he is not! He has noble impulses--ragpicking--inspired! His eyes +were misty when he spoke of it-- + +“A way out of Butterfly Thenter! + +“A ragpicker's cart-- + +“A way out--” + +Petticoat held her up. + +“You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins.” + +“Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while.” + +“Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home.” + + * * * * * + +So she was fairly thrown at Porgie. + +Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or +rubbers. + +The night came unheralded. + +Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons--over-ripe +sardines--and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight. + +Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a +stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, +where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black +pool, Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing +her position every ten seconds. + +A giant lumbered in. + +“Porgie!” + +“Saw your husband speeding away--couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take me +upstairs--I want to see your shoe cabinet.” + +“Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your +dreams and ideals--your rags--” + +“Ah--rags--you do love me!” + +“I don't know--but I love rags--sweet--so sweet--” + +“You're a misfit here--as who isn't. All misfits, +frauds--fakes--liars--” + +“All?” Warble looked interested. + +“Yes, you little simpleton. I know!” He growled angrily. “Shall I tell +you--tell you the truth about the Butterflies?” + +“Pleathe--pleathe--” + +“I will! You ought to know--you gullible little fool. Well, to start +with, Avery Goodman--in his true nature, he's a worldly, carnal man. His +religion is a cloak, a raincoat, a mere disguise. Mrs. Charity Givens, +now, she's no more truly charitable than I am! She's shrewd and stingy, +her lavish gifts to the poor are merely made for the sake of the praise +and eulogy heaped upon her by her admiring friends. Manley Knight, +renowed for his bravery in the war, is an arrant coward. His soul is +a thing of whining terror, his heroism but a mask. Oh, I know--I read +these people truly, when they sit to me--off guard and unconsciously +betraying themselves. + +“Mrs. Holm Boddy! Pah! She's far from domestic! She yearns for the halls +of dazzling light, for gayety and even debauchery. Her devotion to home +and children is the blackest of lies! And Iva Payne! She's no invalid! +It's a pose to seem interesting and delicately fragile. You should see +her stuff when no one's looking! + +“Judge Drinkwater is a secret drunkard. Lotta Munn is a pauper--an +adventuress, pretending to wealth she doesn't possess. Herman True and +his wife! Zounds, if you could hear those two quarrel! Yet they pose as +lovers yet, and folks fall for it!” + +“May Young?” Warble asked, breathlessly. + +“An old maid. Well preserved, but no chicken. And Daisy Snow! +Angel-faced débutante! Huh, she knows more than her mother ever dreamed +of! You should see her in my studio, at her sittings! Cocktails, +cigarettes, snatches of wild cabaret songs and dances--oh, Daisy Snow is +a caution!” + +“The Leathershams?” + +“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.” + +“You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you--” + +“Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie--and you saw him first.” + + * * * * * + +Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head. + +Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the +rapids are below you! + +Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First--all the deadly +virtues called her. + +Did she heed? + +As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. + + * * * * * + +On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie +came. + +Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the +moon-parlor. She wore a picture frock of _point d'esprit_ and tiny pink +rosebuds, and little pink socks and sandals. + +“Come out on the Carp Pond,” he muttered, picking her up and stuffing +her in his pocket. “Nobody will see us.” + +He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three +of his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted +back. Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail +of his ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in. + +“Think of it!” he boomed. “No fetters of fashion, no gyves of +convention. Free--free as air--free verse, free love, free lunch--ah, +goroo--goroo!” + +“Goroo--” agreed Warble, “sweet--sweet--” + +“Sweet yourself!” roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his +gorilla-like arms just as a ringing, musical, “Ship ahoy!” sounded on +their ears. + +“Hello there, Warbie!” + +She knew then it was Petticoat. + +“Having a walk?” he inquired, casually. + +“Yop,” she casualed back. + +He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and +snatched Warble in beside himself. + +“Time to go home,” he said, cheerfully. “Good night, Sproggins.” + +He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and +twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather +touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. + +“Now, Warb, what about the baboon?” + +“I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? +Pleathe--” + +“Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing--a good old +Cotton-Petticoat--birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has +none of these--” + +“But he loves me!” Warble wailed. + +“Yes, 'cause he can't get you. Go along with him, and then see where +you'll be! No, my Soufflée, you hear me! Can the Porgie and stick to +your own Big Bill--your own legit.” + +“But you don't love me--” + +“Oh, I do--in my quaint married-man fashion. And--ahem--I hate to +mention it--but--” + +“I know--and I _am_ banting--and exercising, and rolling downstairs and +all that.” + +“Well, we're married, and divorces are not the novelty they once +were--so let's stay put.” + +“Kiss me, then--” + +He brushed a butterfly kiss across her left eyebrow, and together they +strolled back into the house, and as he went up to bed, Warble went down +to the pantry to see about something. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +“I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter,” Warble sobbed, “I don't +b-belong--and I-m g-going away--” + +“All right,” Petticoat said, cheerfully, “how long'll you be gone?” + +“It may be four yearth and it may be eleven--” + +“Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done.” + +“You d-don't underthtand--I'm going to find my plathe in the world--I +don't belong here.” + +“All right. Can I go 'long?” + +“No; you stay here. I'm--oh, don't you thee--I'm leaving you!” + +“Oh, that's it?” + +“You'll have the girls to amuse you--” + +“What girls?” + +“Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young--” + +“They're not girls--they're married women--” + +“What!” + +“Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the +time--they're pretty modern, you know. They have separate +establishments, but they're friendly, pally, and even a heap in love +with each other.” + +“I don't believe it--” + +“Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble--that is, if you care to +tell.” + +“I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life--not a Butterfly +existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I +can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going--oh, +I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of +Butterfly Thenter!” + +“Warble--haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? The +Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers--” + +“It isn't that, Bill, dear--it's that--you don't love me very much--” + +Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden +curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump +shoulder to the other. + +“Goodby, Warble,” he said. + + * * * * * + +That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited +measure--freedom! + +Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen +down on the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and +indomitable, on her way. + + * * * * * + +Hoboken. + +Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, +cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, +cauldrons, boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, +jars, labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, +inflamed oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis. + +That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position +was that of a pickle taster. + +At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium +cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills. + +A conscientious taster--faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing +speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well. + +Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her. + +Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of +Petticoats. + + * * * * * + +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! + +“Gee, you're great!” he cried, “I'm for you!” + +She got leave from the factory for a couple of years, with privilege of +extension. + +“I don't want to impose on your kindness,” he said, “but I'd like +to chase around Hoboken and take in the sights, I've never been here +before.” + +“There's a Bairns' Restaurant,” said Warble, shyly, “we might go there.” + + * * * * * + +They did. In a taxicab. He held her in his lap and told her the news. + +He had had his own rooms done over. Mediaeval setting. Romanesque +arches. Stained-glass windows. Sculptured cloisters. Good work. + +“How are the twins?” she asked, timidly. “Pleathe.” + +“Fine. Miss you terribly--we all do. Butterfly Center mourns your loss. +Spring a come-back, won't you, Warble?” + +“You want me?” + +“More than anything in the world! I'm mad about you! You beauty! You +raving beauty! You'll be the talk of the world this winter. Gee, Warble, +how I can dress you, now you're thin! Won't Beer be astounded!” + + * * * * * + +That's the way things came to Warble. + +The only thing she wanted, her husband's love, now flung at her feet +in unstinted measure, pressed down and running over--love, slathers of +it--all for her! It was sweet--a pleasant change from pickles. + +“How's everybody?” + +“Here and there. Iva's gone.” + +“Thank Heaven! Where'd she go?” + +“Dunno. Her husband took her off. Jealous of me.” + +“H'm. And Daisy Snow?” + +“Gone into the movies. She grew too heavy for society. May Young's in +the Old Ladies' Home.” + +“And Lotta Munn?” + +“Murdered by her husband. He had to kill her--she wouldn't support +him. The Leathershams are in the poorhouse, and Mrs. Charity Givens has +bought their place. Want to go on a second honeymoon? Round the world?” + +“Yop.” + + * * * * * + +They went. One night, sitting on top of the Taj Mahal, 'neath the Blue +Moon of Persia, Warble cried, + +“Shall I go back to Butterfly Thenter--or shall I not?” + +“Spin a toddletop,” said Petticoat, taking one from his pocket. + +She spun it and it came up pickle foundry. + +So Warble said, “All right, dear, I'll go home with you whenever you're +ready,” and she kissed him slenderly. + + * * * * * + +Ptomaine Haul. + +Two Petticoats arriving. A happy Warble sprang from the car and seemed +fairly to skim up the steps. She passed, unnoticing, the pantry door, +and flew up to her own rooms which had been done over to suit her new +slenderness. + +“Beer,” she cried, “look at me!” + +“Maddum!” cried the astounded Beer. “What done it?” + +“Unrequited love and pickles. I can wear sport clothes now!” + +“Maddum can wear anything or nothing!” declared Beer triumphantly. + +That night, Warble, her hands behind her, wafted into Petticoat's room. + +He sat on the edge of his bed, running lingerie ribbons in his +underwear. + +“I'll stay, always,” Warble said, sidling up to him. “And I'm happy. +But...” + +“Look out! Don't let the cat get that bolt of ribbon to play with!” + +She smoothed his pillows and patted his sheets, while Petticoat glanced +at her a little suspiciously, from under his gabled eyebrows. + +“But I don't say that Butterfly Center is worth the ground it's built +on. I don't admit that Ptomaine Street is as useful as a Hoboken alley. +I don't admit that Art is any good at all. I've fought like a tiger +and I didn't make a dent on the Butterflies--but, I _have_ grown thin!” + “Sure, you bet you have!” said Petticoat, threading ribbon into his gold +bodkin. “Well, kiss me good night--here you--I see you! Don't you put +those caterpillars in my bed!” + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + +***** This file should be named 8386-0.txt or 8386-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/3/8/8386/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/8386-0.zip b/8386-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d286b80 --- /dev/null +++ b/8386-0.zip diff --git a/8386-8.txt b/8386-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19e833f --- /dev/null +++ b/8386-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3866 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ptomaine Street + +Author: Carolyn Wells + + +Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8386] +This file was first posted on July 5, 2003 +Last Updated: May 11, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +PTOMAINE STREET + +THE TALE OF WARBLE PETTICOAT + + +By Carolyn Wells + + +To Roberta Wolf Buehler My Beloved Friend + + + + +FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK + + A certain Poet once opined + That life is earnest, life is real; + But some are of a different mind, + And turn to hear the Cap-bells peal. + Oft in this Vale of Smiles I've found + Foolishness makes the world go round. + + Ecclesiastes, Solomon, + And lots of those who've passed before us, + Denounced all foolishness and fun, + Not so the gay and blithesome Horace; + And Shakespeare's Jaques, somewhat hotly, + Declared the only wear is Motley! + + We mortals, fools are said to be; + And doesn't this seem rather nice? + I learn, on good authority, + That Fools inhabit Paradise! + Honored by kings they've always been; + And--you know where Fools may rush in. + + And so, with confidence unshaken, + In Cap and Bells, I strike the trail. + I know just how, because I've taken + A Correspondence Course by mail. + I find the Foolish life's less trouble + Than Higher, Strenuous or Double. + Dear Reader, small the boon I ask,-- + Your gentle smile, to egg my wit on; + Lest people deem my earnest task + Not worth the paper it is writ on. + Well, at white paper's present worth, + That _would_ be rather high-priced mirth! + + I hope you think my lines are bright, + I hope you trow my jests are clever; + If you approve of what I write + Then you and I are friends forever. + But if you say my stuff is rotten, + You are forgiven and forgotten. + + Though, as the old hymn runs, I may not + Sing like the angels, speak like Paul; + Though on a golden lyre I play not, + As David played before King Saul; + Yet I consider this production + A gem of verbalesque construction. + + So, what your calling, or your bent, + If clergy or if laity, + Fall into line. I'll be content + And plume me on my gayety, + If of the human file and rank + I can make nine-tenths smile,--and thank. + + + + +PTOMAINE STREET + + + + +CHAPTER I + +On a Pittsburgh block, where three generations ago might have been heard +Indian war-whoops--yes, and the next generation wore hoops, too--a +girl child stood, in evident relief, far below the murky gray of the +Pittsburgh sky. + +She couldn't see an Indian, not even a cigar store one, and she wouldn't +have noticed him anyway, for she was shaking with laughter. + +A breeze, which had hurried across from New York for the purpose, blew +her hat off, but she recked not, and only tautened her hair ribbon with +an involuntary jerk just in time to prevent that going too. + +A girl on a Pittsburgh block; bibulous, plastic, young; drinking the air +in great gulps, as she would later drink life. + +It is Warble Mildew, expelled from Public School, and carolling with +laughter. + +She had only attended for four weeks and they had been altogether +wasted. In her class there were several better girls, many brighter, one +prettier, but none fatter. The schoolgirls marveled at the fatness of +her legs when, skirts well tucked up, they all waded in the brook. Every +cell of her body was plump and she had dimples in her wrists. + +And cheeks, like: + + A satin pincushion pink, + Before rude pins have touched it. + +Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice +and her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls--you +know, sort of ringolets. + +In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was +more dressed. + + * * * * * + +Expelled! + +That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on +in broad strokes--in great splashes--in slathers. + +Expelled! And she had scarce dared hope for such a thing. + + * * * * * + +To sound the humor of Warble. + +She hated school. Books, restraint, routine, scratching slate pencils, +gum under desks, smells--all the set up palette of the schoolroom was +not to her a happy vehicle of self-expression. + +Often, in hope of being sent home, she had let a rosy tongue-tip +protrude from screwed up red lips at teacher, but it had gone +unpunished. + +And now-- + +Now, rocking in triumphant, glorious mirth, her plump shoulders hunched +in very ecstasy, the child was on the peak! + +Expelled! Oh, gee! + +And all because she had put a caterpillar down Pearl Jane Tuttle's back. +One little, measly caterpillar. + +Pearl Jane had sat right in front of her. + +A loose neckband round a scrawny neck. + +And when Pearl Jane wiggled, a space of neck between two thin, tight +black pigtails--a consequent safe-deposit that was fairly crying out to +have something dropped down it. + +A caterpillar mooching along the schoolroom aisle--clearly sent by +Providence. + +Helpless in the grip of an irresistible subconscious complex, Warble +scoops up the caterpillar and in an instant has fed him into the gaping +maw at the back of that loose gingham neckband. + +Gr-r-r-r-rh! + + * * * * * + +That, then, is why Warble stood in such evident relief on the Pittsburgh +block. + +Expelled! The world was hers! + +It had always been hers, to be sure, but it was now getting bigger and +more hers every minute. + +The very first day she went to school, a little boy said to her: + +"Do you like me?" + +"No," said Warble. + +The little boy gave her all his candy and his red balloon. + +So you see, she had a way--and got away with it. + + * * * * * + +Warble was an orphan. She had a paprika-seasoned sister, married to a +chiropodist, in Oshkosh. But for all that, she planned to earn her own +living. + +And she had an ambition. At present beyond her grasp, yet so sure +was she of its ultimate attainment, that she shaped her entire cosmic +consciousness toward that end. Her ambition was not unique, perhaps +not unattainable. It had been achieved by others with seemingly little +effort and less skill; and though as yet, merely a radiant hope, Warble +was determined that some day she would gain her goal. + +Her ambition was to get married. Her sister had; her mother had; she +politely assumed her grandmother had. + +She would. + +Often she imagined herself the heroine of delightful scenes she watched +at the cinema. She loved the slow unwinding of the story on the screen, +but when engaged with her imagination she hurried it on in haste to +reach the final close-up. + + * * * * * + +It was at no one's advice, but because of her own inner yearnings that +Warble took a job as waitress in a Bairns' Restaurant. + +She reveled in the white tiles, the white gloss paint, the eternal +clearing-up and the clatter of flatware. She loved the flatware--it +always made her think of a wedding--sometimes of her own. + +She adored the white-capped King Alfred baking his cakes in the window, +but merely as a fixture, as she adored the mute stacks of clean plates +and the piles of pathetic little serviettes. + +In a more intimate and personal way she adored the pork and beans, the +ham and eggs, the corned beef and cabbage, and--importantly--the gentle, +easy-going puddings and cup custards. These things delighted her soul +and dimpled her body. + +She was proud of her fellow-waitresses, proud of their aspirations (the +same as her own). + +Having exceptional opportunity, Warble learned much of culinary art +and architecture, at least she became grounded in elementary alimentary +science. + +She had little notebooks filled with rules for Parisian pastry, Hindu +recipes for curry; foreign dishes with modern American improvements. + +Joyously she learned to make custard pie. This, as the tumultous future +proved, was indicative. + +Only the little smiling gods of circumstance, wickedly winking at one +another, knew that when Warble whipped cream and beat eggs, she laid +the corner stone of a waiting Destiny, known as yet but to the blinking +stars above the murky Pittsburgh sky. + +She was extravagant as to shoes and diet; and, on the whole, she felt +that she was living. + +She was not mistaken. + +She went to dances, but though sometimes she toddled a bit, mostly she +sat out or tucked in. + +During her three years as a waitress several customers looked at her +with interest though without much principle. + +The president of a well-known bank, the proprietor of a folding-bed +concern, a retired plumber, a Divinity student and a ticket-chopper. + +None of these made her bat an eyelash. + +For months no male came up for air. Then, the restaurant door swung back +on its noiseless check and spring, and in walked Big Bill Petticoat. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Petticoats were one of the oldest and pride-fullest of New England +families. So that settles the status of the Petticoats. A couple of them +came over in the _Mayflower_, with the highboys and cradles and things, +and they founded the branch of Connecticut Petticoats--than which, of +course, there is nothing more so. + +Of course, the Petticoats were not in the very upper circles of society, +not in the Dress Circle, so to speak, but they formed a very necessary +foundation, they stood for propriety and decency, and the Petticoats +were stiff enough to stand alone. + +Another fine old New England family, the Cottons. + +Intermarriage linked the two, and the Cotton-Petticoats crowded all +other ancient and honorable names off the map of Connecticut and nodded +condescendingly to the Saltonwells and Hallistalls. Abbotts and Cabots +tried to patronize them, but the plain unruffled Cotton-Petticoats held +their peace and their position. + +The present scion, Dr. Petticoat, was called Big Bill, not because of +his name or stature, but because of the size of his bills. He presented +them quarterly, and though his medicine was optional--the patient could +take it or leave it--the bills had to be paid. + +Wherefore Dr. Petticoat was at the head of his profession financially. +Also by reputation and achievement, for he had the big idea. + +He was a specialist, and, better yet, a specialist in Ptomaine +Poisoning. + +Rigidly did he adhere to his chosen line, never swerving to right or +left. People might die on one side of him from water on the brain and on +the other side from water on the palate, not a prescription could they +get out of Big Bill Petticoat unless they could put up unmistakable +symptoms of ptomaine poisoning. + +And he was famous. People brought their ptomaines to him from the +far places, his patients included the idlest rich, the bloatedest +aristocrats, the most profitable of the profiteers. His Big Bill system +worked well, and he was rich beyond the most Freudian dreams of avarice. + +As to appearance, Petticoat was very pretty, with that fresh rosy +beauty that is so attractive. His walnut hair was fine and silky, but +a permanent wave made it fuzz forth in a bushy crinkle that was +distractingly lovely. His tweezed eyebrows were arched to a perfect span +and his finger nails showed a piano polish. + +His features were cold-chiseled and his coloring was exquisite. In fact, +his coloring was too good to be true, and no wonder, for it came out of +a very modern and up-to-date six-cylinder makeup box. + +His lips looked as if they were used to giving orders in restaurants, +and he wore clothes which you could never quite forget. + +Warble edged toward the stranger, and murmured nothing in particular, +but somehow he drifted into the last and only vacant seat at her table. + +She whisked him a 2 x 2 napkin, dumped a clatter of flatware at him, and +stood, awaiting his order. + +The pause becoming lengthy, she murmured with her engaging smile, +"Whatcha want to eat?" + +"Pleased to eat you," he responded, looking at her as though she was an +agreeable discovery. + +Small wonder, for Warble was so peachy and creamy, so sweet and +delectable that she was a far more appetizing sight than most viands +are. She smiled again--engagingly this time, too. + +Thus in the Painted Vale of Huneker, Vamp and Victim beguiled the hours. +Thus, and not in treacled cadences, intrigued Mariar and Sir Thomas in +the back alley. + +"Do you like it here?" asked the doctor. + +"Yop. But sometimes I feel wasted--" + +"You don't look wasted--" + +"No--" after a hasty glance in the wall mirror. + +"Don't you get sick of the sight of food?" + +"Here, oh, no! I don't know any lovelier sight than our kitchens--yes, +yes, sir, I'll get your pied frotatoes at oneth." + +When Warble was a bit frustrated or embarrassed, she often inverted her +initials and lisped. It was one of her ways. + +The other clients at her table had no intention of being neglected while +their Pickfordian waitress smiled engagingly on a newcomer. + +It was the iceman who had hollered. He seemed to be merely a red-faced +inanimate object, that worked by strange and compound levers. + +Next him was a hat-check girl, a queenly person who communed with +something set in the lid of her vanity case, and fed on chicken la +king. + +Then there was a newsboy, whose all-observant eyes darted about +everywhere, the while he absorbed baked beans and ketchup. + +An old maid shopper. She merely brooded over her worn and pencil-scored +memorandum, and muttered of fringe and buttons as she spilled tea on her +samples of Navy blue foulard. + +A blind man. Of no interest save that he had a calm and gentle demeanor +and was the only one who didn't spill things. His face wore a grieved +but resigned look, as if something had died in his scrambled eggs. The +iceman, who had the hard, set jaw of a prize fighter was successfully +eating steak, and he welcomed the incoming fried potatoes, as one greets +a new instalment of a serial. + +It was a fat and pink and lovely Warble who at last trotted back with +Petticoat's order. + +The great specialist had an unbridled passion for pie, and throwing +restraint to the winds he had ordered three kinds. The wedges +Warble brought were the very widest she could wheedle from the head +pie-cutter--and Warble was some wheedler, especially when she coaxed +prettily for a big pieth of cuthtard. + +Petticoat looked at her again as she came, pie-laden. + +Her cap was a bit askew, but her eyes weren't. In her white linen dress +and apron and white cap, her little pink face looked to Petticoat's +appraising glance like a postage stamp on an expanse of white linen +envelope. + +Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put +his foot in it. Yet he did. + +"May I see you again sometime?" he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's +ogling and the iceman's cold stare. + +Warble made a face at him. It was one of her ways. + +"What's your address?" he asked. "You can ask the Boss--if you really +want to know." + +"Want to know! Say, you waitress!" + +Of the love-making of Warble and Big Bill Petticoat there is nothing to +be reported which may not be read in any Satevepost serial, which may +not be heard at any summer resort, in any winter garden. They were +zoology and history. Their speech was free silver and their silence was +golden. + +It was a non-stop courtship. All the plump beauty of youth and all the +assured complacence of a well-to-do married man kept them up in the air. + +Petticoat wasn't a married man, but he had their technique. + +They took a walk, and followed a roundabout way. Then they sat on a +bank, and his arm followed a roundabout way. + +She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin +frock and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink +roses, and roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture. + +Petticoat was charmed. + +"Golly, but I love you, Warble!" he cried. + +She did not answer, but she touched the upper edge of the wallet in his +breast pocket with an exploring gesture. + +"You think I'm too darn aesthetic! Well, you're not, and so we ought to +mate. We're complementary to one another, like air and sunshine or light +and shade." + +"Or pork and beans, or pie and cheese." + +"Yes, or like stout and porter--I'll be the porter, oh--what's the use +of talking? Let my lips talk to you!" + +He kissed her cheek, imprinting thereon a Cupid's bow, by reason of his +own addiction to the lipstick. + +Warble rubbed it off with the back of her hand, and said, "Oh, +pleathe--pleathe." + +She wondered if she ought to have said thank you, but it was only a +drifting thought and she turned the other cheek. Then she smiled her +engaging smile and they were engaged. + +Later in the game, she said, with pretty diffidence, "I would like to +thee Butterfly Thenter." And she blushed like the inside of those pink +meat melons. + +"I knew it!" and Petticoat produced a pile of Sunday Picture +Supplements. + +Her cheek nested in his permanent wave, Warble studied the pictures. + +They were the last word in artistic architecture. Truly, Butterfly +Center, where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless +Town and Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching +trees, sublimated houses, glorified shops--it seemed to Warble like a +flitter-work Christmas card from the drug-store. + +"How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?" he +jollied her. + +"It might be--a lark--" she dubioused. + +"But here's the picture!" and proudly he exhibited a full length view of +his own home. + +"Ptomaine Haul," he exploited, proudly. "Built every inch of it from the +busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's +the sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now--he has a corking +chteau--French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens--she has a Georgian +shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most profitable +patients--sick all the time." + +Warble studied the pictures. + +"What expensive people," she said, "dear--so dear." + +"Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come +on, Warble, will you?" + +"Yop," she murmured, from his coat pocket, "Sweet, so sweet." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. +A soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz +awnings of the Butterfly Center station. + +A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit. + +From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening +spaces and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate. + +It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled. + +The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped, +rose-cheeked girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she +looked about. + +About what? + +About eighteen. + +They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble. + +They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous loving. + +It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how +hungry she could be even on a wedding trip. + +Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist and +a pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their home town. +People were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen them before. But +these were her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn--and, they +didn't seem to need it. + +They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that there +is no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris. + +But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station +were hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and +physically, literally butterflies. + +"Isn't there any way of waking them up?" she begged of Petticoat, +grabbing his arm and shaking him. + +"These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy." + +"But they're so smug--no, that isn't what I mean. They're so +stick-in-the-mud." + +"Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a +woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff +and mischief." + +"I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them." + +"Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all down +here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you behave +yourself." + +"Yop." + +She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with +them all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like +Coney Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls. + +She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, +embracing arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they +were taking her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame +her. + +"Oh, pleathe--pleathe," she lisped. + +In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled +white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink +calf, Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing, + + As soft as young, + As gay as soft, + +and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her. + +Not so the remainder of the citizens. + +One of the men was yelling at Petticoat: + +"Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours--I'll tote the bride-person +you've got there--with joy and gladness." Warble looked at the yeller. + +"Can't quite place me, chick, can you?" he grinned at her. "Well I'm +only old Goldwin Leathersham--no use for me in the world but to spend +money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing--step up here, +Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than she looks, Mrs. +Petticoat." + +"Indeed I'm not," Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, "I couldn't +be--nobody could be!" + +She came running--a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of +expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a +lavish smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away from +and through Warble, yet she saw her. + +"So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby," she chirruped. "You're going +to love us all, aren't you?" + +"Yop," said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile. + +"You bet she'll love us," declared Leathersham, "she'll make the +world go round! Hello, Little One," he turned to pat the cheek of a +white-haired, red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, stood +by, listening in. "This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs. +Charity Givens--noted for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads +all Donation Lists, and she's going to start a rest cure where your +husband's unsuccessful cases may die in peace. And here's one of the +cases. Hello, Iva Payne!" + +"Hello," languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily--a Burne-Jones +type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass window to rest +her head against. + +"Are you really Bill's wife?" she asked, a little disinterestedly, of +Warble. + +"Yop," said Warble, and made a face at her. + +"How quaint," said Iva. + +"Whoopee, Baby! Here we are," and Petticoat rescued his bride from the +middle of a crowd and yanked her toward his car. + +The car was a museum piece, and as Warble caromed into its cushions she +felt that her lines had fallen in pleasant places. + +That was the way Fate came to Warble. In big fat chunks, in slathers. +Unexpected, sudden, inescapable--that's Fate all over. + +"I shall like Mr. Leathersham--I shall call him Goldie. They're all +nice and friendly--the men. But this town! Oh, my Heavens! This Jewel +Casket--this Treasure Table! I can't live through it! This Floating +Island of a Tipsy Charlotte!" Her husband nudged her. "You look like you +had a pain," he said; "Scared? I don't expect you to fit in at first. +You have to get eased into things. It's different from Pittsburgh. But +you'll come to like it--love is so free here, and the smartest people on +earth." + +She winked at him. "I love you for your misunderstanding. I'm just +dog-tired. And too many chocolates. Give me a rest, dear. I'm all in +from wear sheeriness." + +She laid her feet in his lap and snuggled into the corner of the +pearl-colored upholstery. + +She was ready for her new home, beautiful, celebrated Ptomaine Haul. +Petticoat told her that his mother had been living with him, but had +fled incontinently on hearing a description of Warble. + +The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a +corner and stopped under the _porte cochre_ of a great house set in the +midst of a landscape. + +Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves. + +A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great +porch, and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield. + +A great hall--at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the +right, a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride. + +"You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is--in case you +care to rebuild or redecorate." + +"It's a sweet home--" she was touched by his indifference. "So +artistic." + +Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, +carelessly, "Yes, home is where the art is," and let it go at that. + +In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and +magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller +skates. + +As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, +she quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth. + +She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had +realized her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the +final close-up. + +What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt, +and admire his rich and expensive clothing. + +"Dear--so dear--" she murmured. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"The Leathershams are giving a ball for us to-night," Petticoat said, +casually, as he powdered his nose in the recesses of his triplicate +mirror. + +"A ball?" + +"Oh, I don't mean a dance--I mean--er--well, what you'd call a sociable, +I suppose." + +"Oh, ain't we got fun!" + +"And, I say, Warble, I've got to chase a patient now; can you hike about +a bit by yourself?" + +"Course I can. Who's your patient?" + +"Avery Goodman--the rector of St. Judas' church. He will eat terrapin +made out of--you know what. And so, he's all tied up in knots with +ptomaine poisoning and I've got to straighten him out. It means a lot to +us, you know." + +"I know; skittle." + +Left alone, Warble proceeded systematically to examine the interior of +Ptomaine Haul. She gazed about her own bedroom and a small part of +its exquisite beauty dawned upon her. It was an exact copy of Marie +Antoinette's and the delicately carved furniture and pale blue +upholstery and hangings harmonized with the painted domed ceiling and +paneled walls. + +The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as +Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to the +embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole. + +The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets, such +as Warble had not smelled since before the war. + +"Can you beat it," she groaned. "How can I live with doodads like this?" +She saw the furniture as a circle of hungry restaurant customers ready +to eat her up. She kicked the dozen lace pillows off the head of the +bed. + +"No utility anywhere," she cried. "Everything futile, inutile, brutal! I +hate it! I hate it! Why did I ever--" + +And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled +Petticoat--not one of those that Oliver Herford so pathetically dubbed +"the short and simple flannels of the poor." + +Yes, she was now a Petticoat--one of the aristocratic Cotton-Petticoats, +washable, to be sure, but a dressy Frenchy Petticoat, and as such she +must take her place on the family clothesline. + +She drifted from oriel window to casement, and on to a great becurtained +and becushioned bay, and looked out on the outlook. + +She saw gardens like the Tuileries and Tuilerums, soft, shining pools, +little skittering fountains, marble Cupids and gay-tinted flowers. This +was the scene for her to look down upon and live up to. + +"I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon! Am I sick?... +Good Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! I'd hate it--I'd be scared +to death! Some day--but, please, kind Fate, not now! I don't want to go +down now with ptomaine poisoning! Not till after I've had my dinner! I'm +going out for a walk." + +When Warble had plodded along for six hours, she had pretty well done up +the town. + +Ptomaine Street, which took its name from her husband's own residence, +was a wide, leafy avenue with a double row of fine old trees on each +side. They were Lebbek trees, and the whole arrangement was patterned +after the avenue which Josephine built for Napoleon, out to the Mena +House. + +She passed the homes of the most respectable citizens. Often they were +set back from the road, and the box hedges or tall iron fences prevented +her from seeing the houses. But she saw enough and sped on to the more +interesting business and shopping section of Butterfly Center. + +She passed Ariel Inn, the hotel being like a Swiss Chalet, perched on +some convenient rocks that rose to a height above street level. A few +fairly nimble chamois were leaping over these rocks and Warble heard a +fairy-like chime of bells as afternoon tea was announced. + +A man in an artist's smock sauntered across the street. A palette on +one thumb, he scratched his chin with the other. A hearse, its long +box filled with somebody, crawled down the block. A dainty Sedan with a +woman's idle face at its window wafted by. From a Greek Temple came the +sound of Interpretative Dancing, and the applause of perfunctory hands. + +She wanted to elope. Her own ideas of utility, efficiency, and economy +were being shattered--broken in pieces like a potter's vessel. Her sense +of proportion, her instinct for relative values, her abhorrence of waste +motion, her inborn system and method, all were swept away as a thief in +the night. Could she reform this giddy whirl? Could she bring chaos out +of cosmos? Was her own ego sufficient to egg her on in her chosen work? + +She haed her doots. + +She maundered down the street on one side--back on the other. + +Dudie's Drug-store was like unto a Turkish Mosque. Minaret and pinnaret, +battlement and shuttle-door, it was a perfect drug-store, nobly planned. +The long flight of steps leading up to its ptortal was a masterpiece in +the step line. + +Inside, the Soda Pagoda was a joy of temple bells and soft, sweet +drinks, while at the prescription counter, the line formed on the right, +to get Dr. Petticoat's prescriptions filled for their ptomaines. + +A Moldavian Incense Shop was the barber's; a half-timbered house +sold English-built clothes; a brick affair of Georgian influences and +splendid lines, housed the hardware needed by the Butterflies, and the +milliner's was a replica of the pyramid of Cestus. + +The bank was the Vatican, with Swiss guards in the doorway. + +Perpetual waste motion! In all the town not one building that connoted +to Warble the apotheosis of efficiency shown by the King Alfred tossing +cakes in the window of Bairns' Restaurant. Not a dozen buildings that +even suggested use in addition to their beauty. + +And the street was cluttered with trees in tubs, window boxes, +sudden little fountains or statues; gilded wicker birdcages on tall +poles--songs issuing therefrom. + +Arbors, covered with pink Dorothy Perkinses, here and there by the +curbside. And, worst of all, people sitting idle in the arbors. Idle! + +She wouldn't have cared so much, if the people had been busy--even one +of them. She fought herself. "I must be wrong. It can't be as silly as +it looks! It can't!" + +She went home and found Petticoat waiting for her. + +"Like the burg, eh? Great stuff, what? Not an eyesore inside the city +wall. Good work, I'll megaphone." + +Warble sat down in an easy-going chair--so easy, it slid across the room +with her, and collided with a life-sized Chinese lady of yellow stone. + +"Yes," Warble responded, "it's very uninteresting." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +Goldwin Leathersham was a great Captain of Industry. In fact, he put the +dust in industry, or, at least, he took it out of it. He got it, anyway. + +His home was an Aladdin's Palace, with a slight influence of Solomon's +Temple. Gold was his keynote, and he was never off the key. + +When our Petticoats arrived at the party, they were met by gold-laced +footmen, who whisked them into shape and passed them along. + +Warble found herself in a white and gold salon, so vast, that she felt +like a goldfish out of water. The place looked as if Joseph Urban had +designed it after he had died and gone to Golconda. Whatever wasn't +white was gold, and the other way round. The gold piano had only white +keys, and the draperies were cloth of gold with bullion fringe. All +real, too--no rolled or plated stuff. + +A huge coat-of-arms in a gold frame announced that Mr. Leathersham was +descended from the Gold Digger Indians, a noble ancestry indeed; and it +was no secret that his wife had played in "The Gold-diggers," during its +second decade run. + +Marigold Leathersham was a charming hostess, and greeted Warble with a +shriek of welcome. "You duck," she cried; "how heavenly of you to dress +so well." + +Warble was simply attired in a white pussy-willow silk underslip. In her +haste and excitement she had forgotten to add the gown meant to go over +it, and as she wore no jewels save the chased gold lingerie clasps +at her shoulders, the result was a simplicity as charming as it was +unintentional. + +And so she made a hit. + +That was the way things came to Warble; a hit--a social success--and all +because she forgot to put on her frock. + +She mingled with the glittering throng of gilded youth, of golden lads +and girls, of gilt-edged married people, and found herself in the arms +of Goldwin Leathersham, her host. + +"Here comes the bride," he shouted, as he piloted her about and +introduced everybody to her. + +"This demure little beauty," he said, "is Daisy Snow. Note her sweet, +pure face and wide-eyed, innocent gaze." + +"It is all so new--so wonderful--" Miss Snow breathed, "I'm a dbutante, +you know, and I have scarcely butterflied out of my chrysalis yet. How +splendid the Leathershams are. He has a heart of gold. Oh, he is such +a good man, he says his life motto is the Golden Rule." + +"And Mrs. Leathersham?" asked Warble. + +"Marigold? Oh, yes, she's as good as gold, too. We're firm friends." + +Warble was agog to mingle, so she moved on. + +Le Grand Paynter, a celebrated Cubic artist, fascinated her with his +flowing locks, flowing tie and marvelous flow of conversation. He asked +to paint her as a Semi-nude Descending a Ladder, but she only said she +must refer him to her Petticoat. + +Freeman Scattergood, the well-known philanthropist was chatting with +Mrs. Charity Givens, who was the champion Subscription List Header. Many +had tried to oust her from this enviable position but without success. +Near them stood Avery Goodman, the rector, and he was deeply engaged in +a flirtation with Miss May Young, one of his choir girls. + +Manley Knight, a returned soldier, was resplendent with a Croix de +Guerre, a Hot Cross Bun and many other Noughts and Crosses. + +Warble fingered them in her light way. + +"Isn't he splendid!" babbled Daisy Snow the _ingnue_; "Oh, how +wonderful to offer one's life for glory! You can fairly see the heroism +bubble out of his eyes!" + +"How you admire him!" said Warble. + +"Yes, but he doesn't care for me." + +"Not specially," admitted Manley Knight. "Yes," Daisy said. "He thinks +me too ignorant and unsophisticated--and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, +the heiress--she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to +Lotta. I think it will be a real love match--like the Trues." + +"The Trues?" asked Warble, politely. + +"Yes," and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart +from the rest, on a small divan. "They're wonderful! Herman True is the +most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his +wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And +they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what +a fate!" + +Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of +cold boiled ham. + +But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of +cocktails. + +Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a dbutante so did Judge +Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a +Prohibitionist. + +A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked +Daisy who she might be. + +"Oh, that's Iva Payne--you met her, you know. She's very delicate, +a semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't +exactly know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to +the doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat--I believe she brings +her own specially prepared food to parties. + +"She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right," Warble commented. + +"I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her--she is not at +all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says." + +"Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?" + +"Oh no! I'm a dbutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I +take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette." + +"Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a +thousand." + +This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the +matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her +mother permitted. + +Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some dbutante +also, for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly +interested in the whole matter. + +She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded +toward the dining-room. But no such luck. + +Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the +crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, +facing a platform as large as a theater stage. + +An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous +applause. + +"Who is he?" Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery +Goodman, "an impersonator?" + +"Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist--rants on Fourth Avenue +dimensions, or something like that." + +In a tone of forceful mildness the speaker began: "It must be conceded +that, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all +insensate communication, that a psychic moment may or may not, in +accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, +become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a +trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, +no feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable +demand of endurance. + +"Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the +investiture of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in +accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, +to become warily regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof +of a smouldering discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a +trenchant humor, it may or may not be warily regarded. + +"Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to +psychic action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of +disregarded symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power +of doubt, considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our +argument as faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the +corollary reasoning must be that no premise is or may be capable of such +conclusion as will render it sublunary to its agreed parallel. + +"But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution. + +"We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is +impossible in connection with neo-psychology." + +There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep. + +She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan +soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for +Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones. + +Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but +the music went inexorably on. + +It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet. + +This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the +applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of +his beard. + +By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever +and she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy +Snow, and it was not Warble's way to cut in. + +In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions +from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, +and Warble went back to sleep. + +There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was +cleared for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a +small glass of punch and a wafer to each. + +Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper +buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys. + +Warble and Petticoat reached home. + +"Howja like 'em?" he asked. + +"I'm so hungry," she wailed. + +"Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It +isn't done. Watch Iva Payne--she doesn't." + +"Oh, Bill--" Warble began to cry. "I want to go back to the +restaurant--" + +"No, no--now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're a +smart crowd--" + +Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled +up her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and +waited to be kissed. + +She was. + +* * * * * + +Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a +built-in English bed, with gray draperies. + +Through a cloth of silver portire, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. +Oxidized silver plumbing exposure. + +No pictures on the walls, save one--a barbaric Russian panel by +Larrovitch. + +At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk--all gray. + +A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon +it and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the +quarrel. + +"They took to you," he said, "you went like hot cakes!" + +It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging +smile, wheedled, "Pleathe, pleathe--" + +"No," Petticoat said, inexorably, "if you eat all the time you'll get to +look like that soprano. Howja like that?" + +"Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?" + +"Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're +my--well, you're my soulmate." + +"Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my +appetite--you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!" + +He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about +his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Warble's own maid was named Beer. + +A French thing--so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied +with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that +displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris +reported skirts going up or down as the case might be. + +A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, +and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll. + +Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it +impossible. Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard +sauce off a hot apple dumpling. + +"Do you get enough to eat, Beer?" her mistress asked her. + +"Wee, maddum," the maid replied, in her pretty War French. "I eat but a +small." + +"Well, don't drop to pieces, that's all," warned Warble. As to personal +care and adornment the hitherto neglected education of Warble Petticoat +was in Beer's hands. And she handed it out with unstinted lavishness. + +That was the way things came to Warble; in slathers--in big fat chunks. +In avalanches and rushing torrents. + +Beer engineered all her new wardrobe, and received sealed proposals for +its construction. + +Beer taught her the mysteries of the toilette table, and once initiated +into this entrancing art, Warble let herself go in the matter of +cosmetics and make-ups, and could scarce wait for Beer's afternoon out, +to dabble about by herself. + +Beer taught her how to wear jewelry, and directed what pieces she should +ask Petticoat for next. + +Altogether, Warble was trying out things--but carefully, as a good +housewife tries out lard. + +And she was not yet certain as to the results. Environment has to +reckon, now and then with heredity. + +Warble, at soul, all for utility, economy, diligence and efficiency, +transplated to Butterfly Center, with its keynote of careless idleness, +waste motion and extravagance. + +One must win out. Had she a Dempsey of a heredity against a Carpentier +of an environment? Or was it the other way round? + +She planned to reform Butterfly Center, to do away with the street +statues, the useless patches of flowers; tear down and rebuild the +ridiculous classic architecture of many of the shops and substitute +good solid livable houses for the castles and chteaux, the barracks and +bungalows that adorned the residence section. + +These reforms she meant to bring about shortly, but first, she must +begin with her home. + +In her pride of being a Petticoat she loved every detail of Ptomaine +Haul. Yet she knew it did not express herself, it was not the keynote of +her own Warbling personality. + +What to do. + +She sat in her boudoir, its mauve walls and gold Japanese screens +backgrounding her plump prettiness, as she lolled on a gold brocade +_chaise longue_. + +She glanced out at the peacocks strutting in the Italian garden and +listened to the rooks cawing in the cypresses between the marble urns on +the terrace steps. + +It was a big proposition to change all that. To turn the bird sticks +into pruning hooks and the bird baths into plowshares. + +Could she do it? + +Doubtful. + +She went out into the hall and looked over the rail of the great +rotunda. Rugs hung from the rail, as it might be a Turkish Monday. + +Below, she could see the lake in the front hall, also she could glimpse +the armored bronze Petticoats guarding the entrance that led to the +corridor that led to the hall leading into the dining-room. + +It was well nigh hopeless. + +Warble sighed. Then she rang for Beer and ordered some French pastry and +a cup of chocolate. + +Revived and revivified, Warble decided on a mad dash for reform. + +Ordering Beer to dress her quickly, she did all she could to help, and +soon, in a daring combination of canary, black and coral, she was on her +way to the shops. + +She achieved what is known as a utility box, and which is compounded of +matting and a few bamboo strips. + +This she caused to be set up in her boudoir. + +Came Petticoat. + +No oral observations, but the next day an antique Florentine chest, +carved by Dante, replaced the box. + +"Just as utile," Bill remarked, "and a lot more expensive. Kiss me." + +That is the way the Petticoats of this world decree, and that is the way +the Warbles submit. + +That Thursday afternoon she was in love with her husband. She toddled +into his room to talk to him. She was in pastel chiffon boudoir +jambires picked out with rosebuds. She sat, cross-legged, on one of his +gray satin floor pillows and looked up at him. + +Petticoat was just going out and he sat before the mirror, earnestly +adjusting a hair net over his permanent. + +"Hello, _Fruit Mousse_," he said, half absent-mindedly, as he went on +adjusting. + +Big Bill Petticoat was far from being effeminate. He was found of +aesthetics and anaesthetics, and his chief interests in life were beauty +and his big bills. + +"What's the use of beauty, if a thing isn't useful?" Warble would ask, +and Petticoat would reply, "What's the use of use, anyway? There's no +use in having anything that isn't beautiful." + +And as the house was under Petticoat rule, Big Bill won out. + +"You must have a party, Warble," Petticoat said, as he fitted a long, +slim cigarette into a long, slim holder. + +"I'd rather have a baby," and she looked up at him inquiringly. + +"Honest, Warbie, I can't afford it. I've lots of money, but we take a +lot of keeping ourselves, and to keep a baby means almost a whole +extra establishment. Let's wait till I've saved up a bit, or we have a +windfall. Leathersham owes me a small fortune for his cook's ptomaine +cases--she's always getting poisoned with her imported canned +things--but Goldie's slow pay, and too, I want to make a few +improvements on the place. I'm thinking of bringing over a Moorish +Courtyard intact--nice, eh?" + +"What's it good for?" demanded Warble. "We've done our courting, and +anyway--look here, Bill, there's only three things I can do. Have a +baby--" + +"Cut it out, Warb; I haven't the means just now. And it might be twins." + +"That's so. Well, the second thing is to reform this town. It's going +to the dogs--to little, silly Pekes and Poms. I can save it, and correct +its ways and put it on a sound utilitarian basis." + +"Don't believe you could do that." + +"Can do. But the third trick is to flop over to their side and be like +the town people myself." + +Petticoat laughed outright. + +"Nixy on that, Warble, my duck. You'd have to reduce." + +"I speck I should. Well, then the reform act for mine. I've got to do +something, Pet, to keep amused and interested." + +"That's what I said. Have a party." + +"I will. And it will be part of the reform. These people are too +highbrow. Too soulful. Too artistic--" + +"Warble! How many times have I told you _never_ to use that word! Now, +look here, if you want to play at reforming, go ahead, nobody will +interfere with you. But where'll you get time? You spend most of your +waking hours in slumber, and the rest, eating. You're a sweet, lovely, +cuddly thing, but if you keep on, some day you'll find you can't get +your kimono together." + +"Then I'll wear two. But, Bill, I'm not so big, you know." + +Warble up, and parading the room with a martial air. + +"You're a perfect Bellona!" Petticoat said, smiling at her. + +"A Bologna! Oh, you horrid thing! But that reminds me I haven't had +sausage lately. I must speak to cook. Now, about my party." + +"Have a good one while you're about it. I might import a Spanish +Ballet--" + +"You might do nothing of the sort! This is to be my party, and I shall +run it to suit myself." + +"All right, Tutti Frutti; you have no subtlety or poetry in your +soul--indeed, I doubt if you have a soul--but you're a dear and a +sweet--" + +"Bill, I've an idea! Build bureaus right down to the floor and then +collar buttons can't roll under them!" + +"Fine idea! Better patent it. Must go. Goodby." + +"Wait a minute. Mrs. Holm Boddy is coming to see me to-day. What's she +like?" + +"Oh, she's a hen-minded Hetty with cabriole legs. Don't bother with her +much. They're lower case people--tin pergola and pebble garden sort. And +early Victorian bathrooms. You won't like her--freeze her out." + +"All righty. Say--Billy dear--has you any choclums?" + +"Not for little gourmands," he took her in his arms. "I say, Warbie, you +promised to cut out sweets. Look here." + +He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning +ancestors looked down in painted disapproval. + +They were all slender--wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a fatty +in the bunch. + +Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale. + +"I don't care!" Warble exploded, angrily. "If you don't give me enough +to eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And +you needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care _that_ for +them!" + +She snapped a dimpled pink thumb and forefinger at the whole exhibit, +made a face at the skinniest one of all, and then sneaked casually into +Bill's arms. + +"Nice, nice," she cooed, patting his mastoid process. "Run along now, +and I'll plan my party." + +* * * * * + +"That Boddy woman," remarked Beer, as she dressed Warble; "she is a +pest--a pill! Wait, Maddum, I beg you! I've only rouged one of your +cheeks!" + +"That's enough," said Warble, inattentively, and she danced down stairs +to freeze out her caller. + +"I've been meaning to come for some time," Mrs. Holm Boddy said, "but I +thought I'd give you a chance to get a little used to your new grandeur. +Quite a change for you, isn't it?" + +"No," said Warble, "it's rather a come down. I've always been very +grand. Tell me about yourself." + +"Oh, I'm the old-fashioned wife and mother. Devoted to my home, and my +family. I deplore the modern tendency to neglect one's own fireside." + +"Yes, I should think you'd be happier there than anywhere else." + +Warble gazed at her guest. She was a tall, angular woman, so gaunt that +her bones rattled. Warble wondered if Bill would really like her to be +like that. + +"Oh, I am. My dear husband, my darling children--you ought to have a lot +of children, Mrs. Petticoat." + +"Yes, I shall, when we can afford it. My husband isn't very well off +just now, you see." + +"You live very extravagantly. Look at those rugs, now. Rugs cost +fearfully." + +"Don't you have any?" + +"Oh, no. We don't waste money that way." + +"Bare floors?" + +"No, carpets. More homey, you know. Nice Brussels in the parlor--real +Body Brussels--Bigelow--and in the bedrooms, Ingrain. Oh, the hominess +of a new-laid Ingrain carpet, with lots of fresh straw under it! You +acquainted with Avery Goodman, the Rector?" + +"I've met him." + +"Splendid man-spiritual-minded and all that. Fine preacher, too. Very +soulful. I often sob right through his sermons. Better go hear him." + +"My husband is a busy man--we haven't time for church." + +"No, spose not. Doctors are kept on the jump. Specially specialists. And +I know your husband is busy. Say, is there any truth in the report that +he pays the grocers and delicatessen men to get--you know--doubtful +canned goods, and not too fresh sea foods and all that--so there'll be +more ptomaine cases?" + +"What a good idea!" Warble cried. "I had not heard of it, but if Bill +does that he's more efficient than I thought him!" + +"I spose he's terribly in love with you?" + +"Bill? Oh, yes. We adore each other." + +"I didn't know. The Petticoats are all so thin--" + +"Yes, a change is always pleasant." Warble gave her engaging smile. + +"Maybe. That Daisy Snow now--she's so pretty _and_ slender. Dr. +Petticoat seems mighty fond of her." + +"Well, you know what doctors are. Nice to everybody, of course. There's +no telling who'll have ptomaine poisoning next." + +"Oh, yes, you can always tell that. It's sure to be Iva Payne. She's +awful attractive, too. You must be worried about your man, Mrs. +Petticoat." + +"I do worry a lot. It keeps my flesh down. Tell me more to worry about." + +"Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of +your own?" + +"Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right." + +"You are! Why, where did your husband get you?" + +"He got me out of a mail catalogue." Warble made a face at her. "Must +you go, Mrs. Boddy?" she rose. "I won't ask you to come again, as I know +how you love your own home and fireside. Goodby." + +Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out +of the front door and slammed it after her. + +"That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul," she said, as +she went down to see the cook about the sausage. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her +party should be a success. + +In the morning she interviewed the cook. + +"You can spread yourself on the feast, Franois," she said, "have +any old menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But +especially I want you to make for me one hundred custard pies." + +The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his +duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish. + +"But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a crme pat?" + +"No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard +pie--see? _Pie_! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! +Get out of my way, I'll make them myself!" + +Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job +and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she +herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust. + +Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen +custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows. + +"Not to be served with the supper," Warble warned the butler, "when I +want them brought in I'll tell you." + +Beer dressed Warble for the party, Petticoat standing by and advising. + +The gown was a few wisps of henna-colored chiffon which fitfully blew, +half concealed, half disclosed a scant slip of jade green satin. + +Flesh-colored stockings, Petticoat decreed, and henna slippers with +carved jade buckles. + +"Now, her hair--" he mused, leaning on his folded arms over the back of +a chair. + +He walked slowly round Warble. + +"Oh, wopse it up anyway," he said, "and tangle some jade beads in it. +She'll stand that." + +His orders were carried out and Beer clasped her hands in silent ecstasy +at the result of the combined efforts of herself and her master. + +"Some day, Warble," Bill said, "I'll teach you how to dress becomingly." + +"And I'll teach you how to undress becomingly," said Beer, not wanting +to be outclassed in her own game. + +Warble waved Petticoat out of the room, dismissed Beer with a simple +"Get out!" and then quickly flung off the clothes she wore and hopped +into a little frock of white organdie and cherries. + +She wadded some hair over each ear, piled up the rest in a moppy coil +and crowned it with a wreath of cherries. + +The party came. + +"Good Heavens!" Warble thought, as she looked at the smart, bored crowd, +"have I got to bring these hifalutin creatures down to earth? I don't +know that I can make them laugh, but I'll give them a jolt!" + +She did. + +Her cherries bobbing, two long-stemmed ones held between her teeth, she +flew around like a hen with its head off. + +"You see," she explained, "it's a Mack Sennett party, everybody puts +things down everybody's back. Like this--and here are the things." + +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. They had to put them down the backs of the men +only, because the fashionably dressed ladies hadn't any backs to put +them down. You can't put an oyster down two crossed strings of pearls. + +It caused great hilarity to see the Reverend Goodman standing on his +head, trying to lose a red-hot silver dollar; and Daisy Snow, whose +dbutante frock was available for the purpose, wriggled beneath the +tickling crawling of a large but harmless spider. + +Warble was almost in hysterics over the funny antics of Goldwin +Leathersham down whose loose and ample collar she had herself poured a +glass of water on two seidlitz powders. + +"Next," she cried, clapping her hands, "we'll have an artistic game. +Here it comes." + +Lackeys and minions brought in pails of kalsomine, of various tints, +some of pale pastel shades, others of deep rich hues. One was given to +each guest, and each was provided with a beautiful new whitewash brush. + +"Now," Warble explained, her blue eyes dimpling with delight, "you each +make a splash on the wall--a big, hit-or-miss splash. Then we each try +to evolve a lovely picture by few bold strokes." + +This was great fun. + +Manley Knight, with a mighty splash of color that landed on a Fragonard +panel, had quite a good start for a "Storm at Sea." He worked it up with +fine technique and you would have been surprised at the result. + +Iva Payne took a splash from several different pails thereby achieving a +Cubist landscape. It was entitled "High Tide off the Three-mile Limit," +and was a startling success. + +Daisy Snow, timid little dear, made but a tiny daub and worked it up +carefully. + +"That," she said, "is a miniature of Big Bill." + +All in all, it was gay sport, and even Mrs. Charity Givens took part, +though she protested she was no artist and couldn't even draw a straight +line. + +The next performance was a contest between Adam Goodsport and Avery +Goodman. + +Bets were made on the two contestants before the betters knew what the +scrap was to be. + +"It's a character sketch," Warble explained. "Mr. Goodsport tries to +blacken Mr. Goodman's character, while the Rector tries to whiten Mr. +Goodsport's character." + +Avery Goodman was then presented with a bag of flour and Adam Goodsport +was handed a bag of soot. + +They went at it hand over fist, and in a few moments the blacking +and whiting process was so complete that both were pronounced perfect +transformations and all bets were off. + +Faces, hands and clothes were alike befloured and besooted, until +Goodman was a veritable Blackamoor while Adam Goodsport looked like a +Marcelline. + +A few eyebrows indicated a suspicion that Big Bill Petticoat's bride was +a Little Mischief, but nobody said anything about it. + +"If I can only reform them," Warble thought to herself, "if I can only +make them like and enjoy this innocent fun instead of wearing their poor +brains out over capitalled Art and Literature." + +"Now," she said, briskly, "we're going to play a game I learned in +Shanghai. All take off your shoes and stockings. No one excused--come +on--off with them." + +Beer and a few other maids came in to assist the ladies, the men were +properly valeted, and the barefooted crowd sat waiting further orders. + +Daisy Snow made a remark about being a maiden with reluctant feet, but +nobody noticed it. + +Several seemed rather relieved than otherwise at the condition imposed +upon them. + +"Now," said Warble, but before she could go further, Adam Goodsport +butted in with: + +"Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat--oh, please! Such an opportunity! May never +occur again! Oh, can't I--may I not--oh, dear lady, do say yes--" + +"Lordy, what do you want to do? Speak out, man!" + +"Why, you see, I am a solist--like a palmist you know--but as to feet. +I studied solistry in Asia Minor and I know it from the ground up. Oh, +please, Mrs. Petticoat, let me read your sole!" + +"Do," cried Warble, "love to have you." + +She plumped herself into a pillowed divan, and held her little pink feet +straight out in front of her. + +Goodsport, sitting on a cushion at her feet, took one and scrutinized +the sole. + +"The Solar system," he began, "is interesting in the extreme. It was +invented by Solon, though Platoe also theorized on the immortality of +the sole. His ideas, however have been discarded by modern footmen. + +"Locke, is his treatise On the Human Understanding, discusses the +subject fully and with many footnotes, and old Samuel Foote himself cast +footlights on the subject." + +"Now, looky here," Warble objected, "I won't have a lecture in my house! +I object to anything of an intellectural nature." + +"This has nothing to do with the intellect," Adam assured her. "Quite +the reverse, now, you listen. It's really interesting. The palmist may +claim to read the true character from the lines of the hand, but it is +only by solistry that the real sole is laid bare and the character of +a subject in any walk of life is exposed. The lines of the sole are +greatly indicative of character, for all traits must draw the line +somewhere. Now, Mrs. Petticoat, this line extending from the Mount of +Trilby to the outer side of the sole is the life line. If that appears +to be broken it indicates future death. If more pronounced on one sole +than the other, it implies that the subject has one foot in the grave. +You haven't, don't be alarmed. Here is the headline, straight and +continuous, showing a long and level head." + +"Ouch," remarked Warble, "you tickle. Try somebody else," and she drew +her feet under her. + +"Me," exclaimed Daisy Snow, coming over and holding out her dainty right +foot. + +"H'm," said Goodsport. "This line running from the Mount of Cinderella +to the heel is the clothes line and denotes love of dress. This line +crossing it is the fish line and shows you are incapable of telling the +truth." + +Daisy flounced away, mad, and Mrs. Charity Givens, with some +trepidation, offered her ample and generous foot for dissection. + +"A thorough, broad understanding and a friendly footing toward all," +declared the solist, "and no danger of misunderstanding. However, your +broken headline indicates pugnacity." + +"Nothing of the sort!" she snapped at him, and waddled away. + +Goldwin Leathersham, greatly interested, insisted on having his pedal +interpreted. + +"Mount of Atalanta highly prominent," said Goodsport, "that means +you are a runner, either for office or for pleasure. Here is a line +meeting--that indicates a railroad man. H'm. A well-developed football +shows you have been to college. You seem to be inclined to solemates--" + +But Leathersham had taken to his heels. + +"Please," said Iva Payne, gracefully offering her long psychic foot for +perusal. + +"Ah, the poetic foot!" the soloist exclaimed. "There are two kinds +of poetic feet--the Iambic and the Trochaic. You have one of each. In +poetic feet the heels are often found in French forms. But poets are +a footloose class and are often found with lame and halting feet. You +don't seem to be a poet." + +"Never said I was," retorted Iva, shortly, and Warble said, "Stop this +nonsense, it makes too much kicking. Now we're going to play the game I +learned in Buda Pesth." + +She led them to the picture gallery which had been prepared for the game +by having many sheets of fly-paper placed on the floor, sticky side up. + +"It's Fly-paper Tag," she said. + +It _was_ Fly-paper Tag--she was quite right. + +"You're it!" screamed Mrs. Givens as she pushed the minister over onto a +sheet of fly-paper. + +"It yourself," shrieked Leathersham adroitly shoving a sheet where he +saw Mrs. Givens would light next. + +* * * * * + +Warble was certain she was a great reformer. + +Yet would these reformed people stay reformed? + +True, they were now in the spirit of her party, Mack Sennett himself +couldn't have asked a better interpretation of his own vital principles. +But had they come to realize that this after all was the real thing, the +true ideal? + +Warble feared. + +* * * * * + +They were a stuck-up lot. The fly-paper had intrigued them all. 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. Judge Drinkwater folded Daisy Snow's two little +hands together, then wrapped them tightly in fly-paper, and shook with +laughter to see her futile attempts to get free. + +"Naughty man!" she cried, "to make poor little me so helpless!" With +a spring she flung her entangled hands over the Judge's head, and hung +round his neck like a pretty little millstone. + +Warble relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired and very hungry. + +But she was the stuff of which true reformers are made and Martin Luther +had nothing on her. + +Then Beer came tripping in with a pile of varicolored garments which she +held up to view. + +"These," Warble announced, "are the real Mack Sennett costumes. They +are one-piece bathing suits, I got them from an importer of contraband +goods. You are to put them on in place of your clothes. And please +forget that you are Butterflies and turn into bathing beauties and +champion swimmers." + +While they were shyly getting into the suits, she donned her own, a +little scalloped apron effect, with cross-strapped sandals, and a silk +bandanna knotted round her head. + +She glanced about and saw Big Bill Petticoat beaming with proud glee at +his wife's social success, and looking lovely himself in a black satin +one-piece, with jet shoulder straps. + +For a second Warble could see only Petticoat's pink cheeks and perfected +eyebrows. Then she shook off the spell and keyed up. + +"We're going to have an obstacle race," she announced, "all over the +house. You must follow me, wherever I go. I shall lead you a dance! And +then I shall come last to the lake in the front hall, and whoever is +nearest me there, will be rewarded." + +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. + +She flew past Petticoat, only pausing to shout, "Like it all, my tramp? +Yes, it _is_ an expensive party." + +Then she led her followers a mad race. Sliding down banisters, squeezing +into dumb waiters; crawling under beds and out the other side; jumping +in and out again of bathtubs full of perfumed water. Out of windows, in +at scuttles. Through booby-traps of half-open doors, on the lintel of +which were perched pans full of live crabs or little boxes of mice. + +On rushed the horde, Mrs. Givens panting from over exertion, Goldie +Leathersham limping because of a crab hanging to his great toe. + +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. + +Wherefore Trymie's soft plop into the oily depths was of a ludicrous +nature. + +Then the guests were allowed to resume their own clothes and supper was +announced. + +Conversation turned to art matters, and Leathersham who was a collector +of many various rarities asked Petticoat how his new collection was +progressing. The collection was one of early American Pieplates. + +"Doing well," Big Bill answered. "I have just achieved a yellow earthen +John Adams, that is authentic and very rare. Except for my Barbara +Frietchie tin one, it is perhaps the gem of my collection." + +"Good!" Leathersham exclaimed, interestedly, "may I see it?" Petticoat +summoned a lackey and two minions and sent them to his curio room to +fetch the plates. But they returned with the startling announcement that +all the pieplate collection had disappeared! + +"Heavens and earth!" Petticoat cried. "Lock the doors, search the +pockets! Why, that collection is worth millions!" + +"What's the matter?" Warble inquired, seeing the hullaballoo. "Oh," as +she was told, "I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and +our pieplates gave out." + +"Making a lot of pies?" Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold +Leathersharn murmured, "How quaint!" in a supercilious way. + +"Yes," went on Warble, unperturbed. "Want to see 'em?" + +They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the +pantry windows. + +"Whoopee!" shouted Petticoat, "here's where I take the helm! Cut out the +rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest." + +It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with +this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their +terrible aestheticism at last? + +Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over +the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. "Oh," she cried, astounded. +"I wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just +eating what I wanted." + +"You're a dear," Marigold Leathersham said to her. "I'm going to love +you. How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing." + +"Yes, he does." Warble stated. "At least, he says so." + +"He's a truthful man," Marigold declared, "you'd know that just to look +at him. There's something in his face just now--" + +"It's pie," said Warble, "he's very fond of it." + +To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final +entertainment. + +"Folks," she said, "this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be +complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides." + +Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they +chose sides. + +The party being thus divided, they bombarded each other with custard +pies after the manner of certain comedians, till there wasn't a round of +ammunition left. + +Then Iva Payne said she felt sick and wanted to go home and of course +just for that they all had to go. + +"The nicest party ever!" they chorused at parting. "So novel and +_nave_--so quite entirely out of the ordinary." + +As the last pied guest disappeared she turned wearily to her Petticoat. + +"I tell you, Warb," he said, "you are sure one corker! You put 'em to +sleep all right! Now you've shown 'em how, you bet they won't go on +having their stupid highbrow intellectural old gatherings. Hop along to +bed, little tired Lollipop." + +His long lithe arms gathered her forcefully to him, and her irritation +at his strength was lost in her admiration of his grace and skill in +imparting affection. + +* * * * * + +From _The Butterfly Centerpiece_: + +The Mack Sennett party at the home of Dr. Bill Petticoat was a hundred +per cent success. Little Lady Petticoat is nobody's fool. She knows that +a lucky punch is her only chance. A short, swift hook, straight from the +shoulder. The pretty Warble is a perpetual promise of joy, yet she shows +symptoms of curvature of the soul--and it is, so far, a toss-up whether +she will have her passport _visd_ or be given the gate. + +* * * * * + +The week after, the Leathershams gave a party. The gilt-chaired audience +listened to Sable Caviaro the new Russian violinist and Slubber D. +Gullion, who discoursed on the Current Trend of Current Bolshe Vikings. + +The refreshing episode consisted of champagne and Saratoga chips. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +The Restless Sexteen was the record altitude of Butterfly Center. It was +the elect and select of the intellect; it was the whole show--the very +Wholly of Whollies. To belong to it was canonization. Though some of its +members also belonged to the Toddletopsis Club, it meant their leading a +double life. + +The Restless Sexteen were mostly young married women with their husbands +as nonresident members. + +They studied higher psychology and broader psychopathy. The wrestled +with and threw Einstein and let themselves dream again with Freud. +Psychoanalysis was their washpot, and over the fourth dimension did they +cast their shoes. + +Their afternoon digest was held at Faith Loveman's and Warble went. + +The Loveman home was an abstract bungalow, which showed rather plainly +the iron hand in the velvet glove influence of the Japanese. + +The large light hall had a built-in abstract table, and on this was an +enormous bronze plaque which held a thin layer of water on which rested +one pansy. + +Faith's devotion to the Doctrine of Elimination allowed nothing else +in the hall, but in the living room there were three whole pieces of +furniture besides, of course, the caterer's gilt chairs brought in to +hold the restless sex as they tried to rest from their restlessness. + +Faith Loveman looked curiously at Warble. + +"You can't be very restless," she observed, "you'd be thinner." + +Warble smiled engagingly. + +"I do want to be thinner," she conciliated, "how can I?" + +And, somehow, that started them all off. They restlessly gave advice, +recommended certain exercises, uncertain drugs and most unattractive +diets. + +They told their own experiences, extolled or berated their masseuses, +scribbled addresses of corsetieres for one another, and in their +interest and restless excitement they forgot all about Warble and she +wanted to go home. + +But she had her mission to perform, and she waited until they restlessly +changed the subject. + +They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than +the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin +Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she +understand. + +"Are you of the cognoscenti?" asked Faith Loveman of Warble. "I know +all about art but I don't know what I like," she returned, blushing +prettily. + +"Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to +find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in +our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the +pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble +that breaks. We need an outlet--a vent--you understand?" + +"Yop," said Warble, "your soul pressure is too high." + +"But we want it high--we love it high--we're restless--we're keyed up, +taut-strung, and hungry for soul food." + +"I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings." + +Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went +home. + +* * * * * + +She reflected. + +"It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I +knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems. A big one seems to +be how to get thin and how to stay so. They were all ready to drop the +high sign babble for that! But all women are. They took it up again. + +"Can I reform them? Or shall I be sucked in, like Italians eat +spaghetti, and my personality absorbed by the Butterflies, till I +forswear all I stand for--all my utilitarian ideals shattered, all my +prosaic hopes dashed, all my common sense wrenched from me, and my +poor little brain-pan filled with the soul-mash of these high-strung +sexaphones?" + +She ignored Beer's offer to undress her, she ran upstairs to an +unfrequented bathroom, and flinging off her clothes, she got into the +tub and wept in terror, her body a round pink blob in the briny water. + +But, thought the poor child, it's the most sensible place to cry. + +When Petticoat came home she said: + +"Honeybunch, let me in on your professional secrets. Tell me more about +your most interesting cases. It might make me restless." + +"Nothing much to tell. Life just one ptomaine after another. Cases all +alike except for the primal cause." + +"Well, tell me something. Where've you been just now?" + +"Over to Iva's. She had 'em again. Ripe olives. Getting better. Where +you been?" + +"To the Restless Sexteen Club." + +"Like it?" + +"I don't get it. They talk about things that aren't there. But I think I +could make them see--" + +"Oh, cut it out, Warble. You'd dust books so hard, you'd dust off the +gilt edges. They're deep-sea thinkers, that bunch--let 'em alone. What'd +they talk about?" + +"About a book called 'Painted Shawls' or something, and about +Thyco-Serapy, and about a play called 'The Housebroke Heart.' Take me to +see it, will you, Bill?" + +"You wouldn't like it. You'd prefer the movies." + +* * * * * + +Four days later, Daisy Snow called and gave Warble a jolt or two. + +"Huh, sizing me up, are they?" Warble sniffed. "Looking at me through +the footle, distorted little microscope of their own silly scrubby +little souls! Pooh, they couldn't, one of them, make a decent puff +paste!" + +"But we can get cooks to do that. The Intelligentsia seek for the rare +essence of thought, for colored words and perfumed cadences--" + +"There, there, Daisy, don't try me too far! What did Lotta Munn say +about me?" + +"Oh, she didn't say much. Just that you're too stout and you haven't +any ideals and you don't know a picture from a hole in the wall, and she +thinks a man like Dr. Petticoat is wasted on you." + +"Huh, she used to like Bill herself, didn't she?" + +"Does yet. She's poisoned nearly as often as Iva Payne is." + +"H'm; anybody else after Bill?" + +"Only May Young." + +"And you." + +"Oh, me! I'm just a dbutante. I'm not after anybody yet." + +"Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is +mine--and I won't stand for any nonsense about that." + +"My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says +you haven't any." + +"She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?" + +"They made fun of your party--" + +"Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!" + +"They thought those bathing suits were--er--rather bizarre--" + +"I _didn't_ get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. And +they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect." + +* * * * * + +Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands +and knees. + +It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, +dead these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a _chaise +longue_, absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more +hair out of each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely +architectural viewpoint. + +"What's the trouble?" Warble asked, "broken down arches?" + +"Nope, guess they're all right." + +"Say, Bill," and she crept into the hollow of his chest, "are folks +talking about me?" + +"They sure are." + +"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. Besides, I like Iva better." + +"Oh, Bill, don't you love me any more?" + +"Course I do, Little Fudge Sundae. But a popular doctor has +responsibilities." + +"I know. I don't mean to be unreasonable. But let's keep peace in the +family as long as it's convenient--see what I mean?" + +"I see. Do you think I'd like my new pajims better trimmed with frilled +malines, or just decorated with a conventional pattern of gold soutache +braid?" + +Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated _chaise longue_ +made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little. + +Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing +gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through +"What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare," wound his watch, put out his +Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and +back, and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on +his heels. + +But until he bawled, "Aren't you ever going to clear out?" she sat, +unmoving. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The +stories she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an "Oh, my +dear, I can't tell you _that_ one--it's _too_ awful!" + +Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the +point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty. + +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. Charity Givens had heard she was a great heiress, and meant +to stick her for a new hospital. That Le Grand Paynter wanted to do her +portrait, life size and full width, and that the Reverend Avery Goodman +said she was very light on her feet for a fat woman. + +The last made Warble mad and she made a face at Lotta and sent her home. + +* * * * * + +A rose-colored June day. Meringues of cloud floating on a sky of +cerulean custard. + +She crawled out for a walk. It was ninety-eight in the shade, too hot to +run much. + +She walked down Ptomaine Street, her nose shining, and pearly drops +chasing each other down her back like rain on a car window pane. + +In her tucked white dimity and ankle-ties, her pink sunbonnet and her +tiny, frilled parasol, she was as much out of place in the aesthetic +town as whipped cream on a grapefruit. + +She circled the outskirts of the town, and noted the massive and +imposing gateways to the great estates. She knew the grandeur inside, +she had been there. Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian +steppes, and in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an +Egyptian temple excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with +difficulty and at great expense had buried there. + +She did not know what to do about it. + +She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of +their homes. Yet she couldn't let it go on--this gigantic inutility, +this mammoth lack of practical, efficient management. + +Why, the ground sunk in a sunken garden would raise crops enough to feed +an army--and Lord knew how soon they might be needed. + +And then she happened to think that reform, like charity should begin at +home, and she decided to start in on Petticoat. + +She did. + +* * * * * + +They were sitting in their home-like Tower of Jewels, and, a bit +timidly, Warble said, "Let's pote quoetry to each other." + +Poor child, nervousness or emotion always made her reverse her initial +letters. + +"All right," Petticoat returned, good naturedly, "you begin." + +Just what Warble wanted! Fate was always good to her. + +"I will, because I hope to reform your tastes, dear, and teach you to +see the beauty of simple beautiful poetry. Listen to this: + + "Weep and the world weeps with you, + Laugh and you laugh alone--" + +"That'll do, Warb. Don't go too far. Now it's my turn. But, you know, +dear, quoting isn't everything. You must learn to dissect, to interpret, +and above all to trace the influences that swayed the poet. + +"Now I'll read you a poem picked at random, and then I'll trace the +influences for you." + +Petticoat reached out a languid arm, picked up a current magazine and +read: + + "'FULFILMENT + + 'Here, at your delicate bosom, let death + Come to me + Where night has made a warm Elysium, + Lulled by a soft, invisible sea. + + 'Now in the porches of your soul I stand + Where once I stood; + Fed and forgiven by a liberal hand, + My broken boyhood is renewed. + + 'You are my bread and honey, set among + A grove of spice; + An ever brimming cup; a lyric sung + After the thundering battle-cries. + + 'You are my well-loved earth, forever fresh, + Forever prodigal, forever fond, + As, from the sweet fulfilment of the flesh, + I reach beyond.'" + +Noting that Warble was still awake, Petticoat discoursed: + +"In the first line, we note the influence of Swinburne. There could be +no better start out. The Swinburne collocation of delicate bosom and +death is both arrestive and interesting. The third and fourth lines +denote the influence of Poe. To be sure, 'a warm Elysium' sounds like +a new and appetizing soft drink, but that is not what is meant; and the +sea is indubitably the one that sounded around the tomb of Miss Annabel +Lee. + +"The second stanza opens under pure Tennysonian influences. This may +not be clear at first to the beginner in influence tracing, but it +is unmistakably so to the expert. The recurring sibilants, the sound +without sense, the fine architectural imagery, all point to the great +Lady Alfred. The latter half of this stanza is due entirely to the +strong influence of D. W. Griffith. The poem was, without doubt, written +after the poet had been to see 'Broken Blossoms,' and the liberal +hand from which that production was flung to a waiting world left its +ineffaceable finger-prints on his polished mind. + +"Now we come to stanza three. The first line shows the influence of +Mother Goose; the second is an unconscious echo of Solomon's Song; the +ever-brimming cup owes itself to Omar; and the rest of the stanza to +Rupert Brooke. + +"Thus we see the importance of widespread reading, and a catholicity of +influences. + +"Influence is wonderful! To invent a new simile, it is like a pebble +dropped into a placid lake; the ripples form ever-widening circles, and +the influence of an influence is never wholly lost. + +"Perhaps--and this is quite as it should be--the final stanza is the +finest of all. It starts out under the influences of Walt Whitman. Had +Walt been omitted, the whole structure would have tumbled to the ground! +No self-respecting poet now-a-days writes without being influenced by +Whitman. It isn't done. It would be as indiscreet as to appear in one's +shirt-sleeves. The influence of the good, gray Poet _must_ be felt, must +be _shown_, or the budding bard is out of the running. Only a dash +of Whitman is needed--'my well-loved earth' and 'prodigal' are quite +sufficient. + +"'The sweet fulfilment of the flesh' is a final roundup that gracefully +blends Whitman's and Ella Wheeler Wilcox's influential powers--and, +incidentally, justifies the magnificent title of the poem. + +"Then, as a crowning triumph, note the splendid last line, a masterpiece +brought about by the influence of Sir Oliver Lodge and his spiritistic +ilk! Could anything be finer? What imagery for a last line! What a +break-off, leaving the gasping reader in a state of choking suspense, +of avid, ungratified curiosity! A great poem indeed, and influenced by a +noble army of writers. + +"Nor is the manner of the thing all that matters. The theme--the great +idea of the whole affair--is a marvelous example of influence. The New +York State Legislature recently passed a bill making attempted suicide +no longer a punishable offense. If successful, it is, like virtue, +its own reward. Indeed, it has to be, for as the Penal Code distinctly +states, owing to the impossibility of reaching the successful +perpetrator no forfeiture is imposed. But the new law lifts the ban from +futile efforts in the matter of self-destruction, and one need not pay +the hitherto exacted fine of a thousand dollars by way of a luxury tax +on such diversion. + +"Can it be doubted, then, that our Poet read of this new law, and--it +may be unconsciously--was so influenced by it that he devoted sixteen +lines of his precious verse to the expression of his willingness to let +death come to him?" + +"I don't blame him for being willing, and I wouldn't put a straw in +Death's way," said Warble, earnestly. "I'm glad you read me that, Bill, +for that is just the sort of thing I mean to eradicate from your system. +It's like a disease, this aestheticism of yours--it's the Culture +Ptomaine." + +"Now, hold on, Dumpling Dear, do you know a culture from a ptomaine?" + +"Oh, I don't mean the cultures you take, I mean Culture with a big C. +It's a poison, and as you cure ptomaine poisoning, I'm going to cure +this town of its deadly art poisoning. I'm in revolt." + +"That's right, everybody who is anybody is in revolt against something +nowadays, because our knowledge of the truth is too great for our +existing conditions, and it bursts--" + + "Like poor Betsy Binn, who was so very pure within, + She burst this outer shell of sin, + And hatched herself a cherubim!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's. + +Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the +moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called +Seven Hills. + +Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of +Constantine and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the +entrance patio. + +"Hello, Pot Pie," screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, "come on in, the +firewater's fine." + +It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged +Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as +they spun the Toddletops. + +Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others +kindly instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some +other devices of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name. + +Also, there were tables, where those who chose played high-staked +bridge, poker or rum. + +Warble wasn't a born gambler. Games of chance had no appeal for her. She +wanted to make faces at everybody and run away. But she scolded herself +for being too superior and forced herself to stay with the bunch. + +In a way, she was rewarded, for she won all the money from the others. +Her luck was monumental. 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. But it didn't mean +a thing to Warble, for the man was so saturated with art that it oozed +forth in his conversation and she had no idea what he was driving at. + +He went home thinking she was the most deliciously tempting morsel he +had ever seen and the biggest fool. + + * * * * * + +"No, I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, as a gift-book, but +he's no man. Could I kiss him? Not with a real movie kiss. + +"They say marriage is a lottery. I haven't drawn much. I mean in the +matter of love. I wish I had a Prince Charming. Bill would do, all +right, but he thinks I'm too fat. I wish I could get thinner--all of +them are. Lotta's like a golf club and Daisy's like a breadstick. + +"I s'pose they were born that way. + +"I wasn't. + +"I wonder when we'll begin to keep a family. + +"I'm crazy about Bill--I am--I am-- + +"Am I? + +"All the girls are, too. + +"Does he care for them? For any of them? For all of them? + +"For that detestable Daisy? That disgusting Iva? That rotten Lotta! + +"Oh, I may as well admit it--I just adore Bill! + +"This frock is too tight--I must have it stretched. + +"Yes, I'm mad over my husband--but--" + + * * * * * + +She sought Petticoat in his rooms. + +She tumbled into his lap, and he pushed her out until he could set aside +the Angora cat and the Airedale and his pet guinea pig, then he said +politely, "Is this your seat?" and she perched on his knee. + +"Do you love me, dear?" she asked, her voice full of a dumb pathos. + +"Ooooooooooooooooooo! I'm sleepy," he said, with a cavernous yawn and a +Herculean stretch that threw her out on the floor. "Want any money?" She +looked at him. He was not unlike John Barrymore in The Jest, and Warble +fell for him afresh. + +"You are so beautiful--" she wailed. "I wish you loved me--" + +"I wish I did," he returned, honestly, "but you are such a butter-ball." + +"Oh, Butterfly Thenter calls anybody Butter-ball who weights over +ninety-five! If you're so cut up about it I won't live under this roof +another minute! I can earn my own living, and all I want, too! You can +get a divorce and marry some thread of a woman who has ptomaines all the +time!" + +"Pish, tush, Warb, don't be a damfool! Lay off the melodrama. I do love +you--at least, I love ninety-five pounds of you. Now, will you be good?" + +"Yeth." + +"And will you try to think of me as a devoted and loving husband, even +if I'm not one?" + +"Oh, my dear, I am unjust to you! I will take what you give me--what you +can spare from the little dog and the cat and the guinea pig. And I will +be your own little Petty Warblecoat. And I won't give you over to Iva +Payne--I hate her!" + + + + +CHAPTER X + +The mail. + +The Petticoats rarely received mail. It wasn't done much in Butterfly +Center. So unaesthetic. + +On a tray, a lacquered lackey brought a letter to Warble. + +A white letter. Large and square--ominously square. + +Warble took tray and all and went with it to Petticoat's rooms--the +letter was addressed to him. + +She tapped but there was no answer. Listening at the door, she could +hear him splashing in his rock-hewn bath and leaping, chamois-like, from +crag to crag of his quarried bathroom. + +She sat down on the floor and waited. Petticoat's toilets were like +linked sweetness, long drawn out. + +It was late afternon, before he emerged, fresh, roseate and smiling, +and imprinted a kiss on Warble's cheek that left the red stamp of a +lip-sticked mouth. Warble sometimes thought if it could be arranged as a +dating stamp, she could keep a record of when he had last kissed her. + +Poor little Warble--she loved her Big Bill so fondly, and he only looked +on her as something fatter than his dog, a little bigger than his cat. +Timidly she proffered the trayed letter. + +"Oh, my Heavens!" and Petticoat smote himself, hip and thigh. "Where +did you get this? Why was I not told sooner of its arrival? To me! And +postmarked Lake Skoodoow-abskoosis! Home of my ancestors! Woman! Why +this delay? _Why_?" + +"It came this morning," said Warble, apologetically, "but you were in +your bath, and the door was locked." + +"But this is a most important letter. Why didn't you slip it under the +door?" + +"I couldn't," said Warble, simply, "it was on a tray." + +"As I hoped--I mean, feared--" exclaimed Petticoat, tearing the envelope +from the sheet, "he is dead!" + +It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope--she always slit +them neatly with a paper-knife--but she was thrilled by Petticoat's +excitement. + +"A fortune!" he exclaimed. "My revered ancestor, the oldest of the +Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! +Now we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, +too! Oh, Warble, ain't we got fun!" + +He danced about the room, in his blue burnous and red tarbush, looking +more like a howling dervish than a tempestuous Petticoat. + +Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice--and perhaps she could +reform that more easily than she could older people. + +"All right," she said, "and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns +of shuffy fliffon--I mean, fliffy shuffon, no--shiffy fluffon--oh, +pleathe--pleathe--" + +Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, +but Petticoat didn't notice her. + +"I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard," he mused, "he'll know. +The last man I sent to Spain for a casemented faade, brought home a +temple! But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run +over just now--" + + * * * * * + +The baby was coming. + +Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She +sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris +powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca +Delia Robbia and Fra Angelico. + +Also a few influential Madonnas. + + * * * * * + +The Butterflies came in with advice. Marigold Leathersham was dubious +about the wisdom of the plan, but brought a pillow of antique rose +point, filled with ostrich plumes. + +Mrs. Holm Boddy rushed over with a copy of _Poems Every Expectant Mother +Ought to Know_, and Lotta Munn sent a card of diamond safety pins. + +Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling +downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence +didn't amount to much. + +Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of _How to Tell +Your Young_, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and +Faith Loveman sent her own marked copy of _Cooks that Have Helped Me_. + +But Warble made a face at them all, and gave their books to the +Salvation Army and read the Diary of Maggot Somebody. + + * * * * * + +Another fate slather. + +The baby was twins. + +That was the way things came to Warble--fate in big chunks--destiny in +cloudbursts. + +Two little red Petticoats all at once to hang on the ancestral tree. + +But Warble was not caught napping. In her efficient way, she had +provided two bassinets, two nurseries--in fact, she had really provided +three of everything, but the third wasn't needed, and she thriftily +ordered it put aside for the present and for the future. + +Dr. Petticoat was enchanted. + +He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by +the skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on +his offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them +Guelph and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran +off at once to put up their names at various select and inaccessible +clubs. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Petticoat had five hobbies. Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, +Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. + +The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger +days had been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she +flibbered differently now. + +She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. +wing, and permeated the household. + +Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits. Bobbed hair. Smoked cigars. + +About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty. + +Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to +spar with him, being a bit off condition. + +"I've no use for Bill," she would say, "with his custard pie ideals, his +soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine _lingerie_." + +Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir. + +She looked at Warble appraisingly. + +"You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a +blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. +You get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. +What do you think of me?" + +Warble made a face at her. "Corking!" screamed Aunt Dressie, "you come +straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?" + +"Not adequately." + +"H'm. You love him?" + +"Oh, yeth!" + +"All right--love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a +case of ptomaine poisoning--that'd help. But don't take the matter too +lightly. If you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him +go. + +"I've just let mine go. You see we had a place--a sort of Vegetarian and +Free Love Community proposition, but it didn't work out so we sold it." + +"And your husband?" + +"Oh, he's on his own for a while. I'm deciding what to fly at next. I +always ask nephew Bill's advice so as to know what not to do." + +"Forgot to mention it," said Petticoat, strolling in, "but a few people +are coming to-night to help me plan for my new Color Organ." + +"What's that?" asked Warble, gazing at Petticoat in azure-eyed +adoration. + +"Oh, Lord, don't you know _anything_? Tell her, Aunt Dressie!" and +turning on his French heel, Petticoat walked delicately out of the room. + +"Treat him rough, Warble, you're an awful fool," commented the older +woman. "Why, a Color Organ is that marvelous new invention that plays +color instead of sound." + +"Color--instead of--sound--" + +"Yes--now don't try to understand, for you can't possibly. Go and play +with the children." + +"I won't. Tell me more about this thing." + +"I won't. You can hear it to-night, when they all talk about it." + +"What use is it?" + +Aunt Dressie stared at her. "What use are you?" she said. + +Warble's brain stopped beating. + +Bump. + + * * * * * + +What use was she--she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! +What use? Grrrhhh! + +She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the +dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! + +"I don't care! I won't endure it! + +"What's Aunt Dressie anyhow? A military blonde, with glazed chintz +undies! What's Marigold Leathersham? A smart party who wears a hat! + +"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 peakd 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." + + * * * * * + +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." + +She flew back to the room where the eager group had their heads together +over the blue prints and wash drawing of the new color organ. Pushing +in between Iva and Lotta she seized Bill by the arm and said, "hurry up +now--matter of life or death--Polly, the maid--dying--urgent case--" + +By that time they were down in the servant's pantry where Polly was +moaning and groaning and wailing like a banshee. + +"What is it, my dear?" Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very +pretty girl. "Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts +and--" + +"That'll do for a beginning," Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves +and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and +disinfectants. + +"Can you do anything, Bill?" Warble asked anxiously, "it isn't +ptomaines, you know." + +"That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent +bit of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, +it's more than an earache! The bally ear has been stung--or +something--anything bite you, Polly?" + +"Yes, sir, a wasp." + +"She says a wathp!" exclaimed Warble. "Oh, Bill, it may mean blood +poisoning!" + +"Yes, that's true--it is--the ear will have to come off. Guess I'd +better call in old Grandberry to operate--he's an ear specialist--" + +"Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!" + +Warble was dancing about in her excitement. "You can do it, Bill." + +"All right. Get her up on the pastry table--there--that's all right. +Now we'll take her blood pressure--here, Warb, you be taking her +temperature, and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of +instruments--and my X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll +fix you up." Petticoat lighted a cigarette and sat down to take Polly's +pulse. + +"That's right," he said to the men who brought the things he had sent +for, "scuttle back for my rubber gloves, and the chloroform outfit. Tell +my man and his helpers to come down--I may need them--and bring me a +clean handkerchief." + +"Now for an X-ray," he said, a little later, as he adjusted his portable +X-razor. + +"Oh, it's all done," said Warble, "While you were taking her plood +bressure, I cut off her ear--" + +"What with?" + +"Oh, I had a boning knife and the sardine scissors. It's all right. And +I've fixed her hair lovely--in a big curly earmuff, so it will never +show at all. Be quiet for a day or so, Polly, and then you'll be all +right. The only trouble is, after this, orders will probably go in one +ear and out the other--" + +"You're a hummer, Warble," Petticoat said, as they went back up stairs. + +"Yes, it had to be done quickly, you see. And it was out of your line, +so I duffed in. But one thing bothered me a little. You see, the fire +was out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a +lot--something might of blew up." + +"And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown +up--" + +"Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!" + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Porgie Sproggins. + +Cave man. Brute. + +Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable +Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling. + +Warble saw him first across the room at a picture exhibition in Manley +Knight's gallery. + +His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear--and his complexion +was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy grocers' shops. +A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that sort. He was a +Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and Tarzan. + +Warble flew at him. + +"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! He does +portraits that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the +world agog." + +Warble drifted back to the attraction. + +"_Do_ like me," she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from the +blue. + +Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who +could resist her. + +Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, +pressing them back as if he would tear her apart. + +"Let me see your soul!" he demanded, and his great face came near to +peer down through her eyes. + +"Ugh, merely blocked in," and he flung her from him. + +"It isn't block tin!" she retorted, angrily, "it's pure gold--as you +will find out!" + +He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote +himself to Daisy Snow. + +Bing! That was the way things came to Warble. + +Fate, Kismet, Predestination--whatever it was, it came zip! boom! +hell-for-leather! + +"It's not only his strength but his crudeness--like petroleum or +Egyptian art. + +"He can control-- + +"Amazingly impertinent! + +"He wasn't-- + +"But I wish he had been-- + +"He will be!" + + * * * * * + +She went to see him--in his studio. + +A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt +gimcracks. Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons. + +"Get out," he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his +niggling at a miniature. + +Warble made a face at him. + +"Do that again," he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory. + +A few tiny brushmarks. + +A wonder picture of Warble--made face, and all. + +"Pleathe--Pleathe--" she held out her hand, and he dropped the miniature +into it. + +"Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?" he demanded. + +"Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself." + +"I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare." + +"Your name? Your silly first name--" + +"It's a nickname." + +"For what?" + +"Areopagitica." + +"Sweet--sweet--" cooed Warble, dimpling. + +"Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers--" + +"What!" + +"It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my +life. But to be a ragpicker--ah, there's something to strive for! A +rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a +galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines--whoa!--giddap, +there! oh--Warble, come with me!" + +He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and +running around, faced him impishly. + +"Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in +the rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?" + +"No, better stay here--" he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a deep +purple bruise. + +"Why?" + +"Better not stay here--better go home." + +"Why?" + +"Goodby." + +He took her up--it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger--and +set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it. + + * * * * * + +She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she +paused to look in at his door, greeted her: + +"Had a good time?" + +She could not answer. + +He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his +wringing wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. + +"Gooooo--oooo--oo--d night," he said. + +That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. + + * * * * * + +A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling +smattering with a brute beast. + +"No, he is not! He has noble impulses--ragpicking--inspired! His eyes +were misty when he spoke of it-- + +"A way out of Butterfly Thenter! + +"A ragpicker's cart-- + +"A way out--" + +Petticoat held her up. + +"You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins." + +"Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while." + +"Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home." + + * * * * * + +So she was fairly thrown at Porgie. + +Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or +rubbers. + +The night came unheralded. + +Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons--over-ripe +sardines--and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight. + +Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a +stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, +where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black +pool, Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing +her position every ten seconds. + +A giant lumbered in. + +"Porgie!" + +"Saw your husband speeding away--couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take me +upstairs--I want to see your shoe cabinet." + +"Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your +dreams and ideals--your rags--" + +"Ah--rags--you do love me!" + +"I don't know--but I love rags--sweet--so sweet--" + +"You're a misfit here--as who isn't. All misfits, +frauds--fakes--liars--" + +"All?" Warble looked interested. + +"Yes, you little simpleton. I know!" He growled angrily. "Shall I tell +you--tell you the truth about the Butterflies?" + +"Pleathe--pleathe--" + +"I will! You ought to know--you gullible little fool. Well, to start +with, Avery Goodman--in his true nature, he's a worldly, carnal man. His +religion is a cloak, a raincoat, a mere disguise. Mrs. Charity Givens, +now, she's no more truly charitable than I am! She's shrewd and stingy, +her lavish gifts to the poor are merely made for the sake of the praise +and eulogy heaped upon her by her admiring friends. Manley Knight, +renowed for his bravery in the war, is an arrant coward. His soul is +a thing of whining terror, his heroism but a mask. Oh, I know--I read +these people truly, when they sit to me--off guard and unconsciously +betraying themselves. + +"Mrs. Holm Boddy! Pah! She's far from domestic! She yearns for the halls +of dazzling light, for gayety and even debauchery. Her devotion to home +and children is the blackest of lies! And Iva Payne! She's no invalid! +It's a pose to seem interesting and delicately fragile. You should see +her stuff when no one's looking! + +"Judge Drinkwater is a secret drunkard. Lotta Munn is a pauper--an +adventuress, pretending to wealth she doesn't possess. Herman True and +his wife! Zounds, if you could hear those two quarrel! Yet they pose as +lovers yet, and folks fall for it!" + +"May Young?" Warble asked, breathlessly. + +"An old maid. Well preserved, but no chicken. And Daisy Snow! +Angel-faced dbutante! Huh, she knows more than her mother ever dreamed +of! You should see her in my studio, at her sittings! Cocktails, +cigarettes, snatches of wild cabaret songs and dances--oh, Daisy Snow is +a caution!" + +"The Leathershams?" + +"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." + +"You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you--" + +"Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie--and you saw him first." + + * * * * * + +Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head. + +Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the +rapids are below you! + +Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First--all the deadly +virtues called her. + +Did she heed? + +As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. + + * * * * * + +On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie +came. + +Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the +moon-parlor. She wore a picture frock of _point d'esprit_ and tiny pink +rosebuds, and little pink socks and sandals. + +"Come out on the Carp Pond," he muttered, picking her up and stuffing +her in his pocket. "Nobody will see us." + +He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three +of his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted +back. Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail +of his ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in. + +"Think of it!" he boomed. "No fetters of fashion, no gyves of +convention. Free--free as air--free verse, free love, free lunch--ah, +goroo--goroo!" + +"Goroo--" agreed Warble, "sweet--sweet--" + +"Sweet yourself!" roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his +gorilla-like arms just as a ringing, musical, "Ship ahoy!" sounded on +their ears. + +"Hello there, Warbie!" + +She knew then it was Petticoat. + +"Having a walk?" he inquired, casually. + +"Yop," she casualed back. + +He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and +snatched Warble in beside himself. + +"Time to go home," he said, cheerfully. "Good night, Sproggins." + +He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and +twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather +touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. + +"Now, Warb, what about the baboon?" + +"I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? +Pleathe--" + +"Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing--a good old +Cotton-Petticoat--birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has +none of these--" + +"But he loves me!" Warble wailed. + +"Yes, 'cause he can't get you. Go along with him, and then see where +you'll be! No, my Souffle, you hear me! Can the Porgie and stick to +your own Big Bill--your own legit." + +"But you don't love me--" + +"Oh, I do--in my quaint married-man fashion. And--ahem--I hate to +mention it--but--" + +"I know--and I _am_ banting--and exercising, and rolling downstairs and +all that." + +"Well, we're married, and divorces are not the novelty they once +were--so let's stay put." + +"Kiss me, then--" + +He brushed a butterfly kiss across her left eyebrow, and together they +strolled back into the house, and as he went up to bed, Warble went down +to the pantry to see about something. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter," Warble sobbed, "I don't +b-belong--and I-m g-going away--" + +"All right," Petticoat said, cheerfully, "how long'll you be gone?" + +"It may be four yearth and it may be eleven--" + +"Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done." + +"You d-don't underthtand--I'm going to find my plathe in the world--I +don't belong here." + +"All right. Can I go 'long?" + +"No; you stay here. I'm--oh, don't you thee--I'm leaving you!" + +"Oh, that's it?" + +"You'll have the girls to amuse you--" + +"What girls?" + +"Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young--" + +"They're not girls--they're married women--" + +"What!" + +"Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the +time--they're pretty modern, you know. They have separate +establishments, but they're friendly, pally, and even a heap in love +with each other." + +"I don't believe it--" + +"Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble--that is, if you care to +tell." + +"I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life--not a Butterfly +existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I +can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going--oh, +I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of +Butterfly Thenter!" + +"Warble--haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? The +Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers--" + +"It isn't that, Bill, dear--it's that--you don't love me very much--" + +Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden +curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump +shoulder to the other. + +"Goodby, Warble," he said. + + * * * * * + +That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited +measure--freedom! + +Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen +down on the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and +indomitable, on her way. + + * * * * * + +Hoboken. + +Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, +cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, +cauldrons, boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, +jars, labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, +inflamed oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis. + +That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position +was that of a pickle taster. + +At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium +cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills. + +A conscientious taster--faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing +speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well. + +Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her. + +Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of +Petticoats. + + * * * * * + +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! + +"Gee, you're great!" he cried, "I'm for you!" + +She got leave from the factory for a couple of years, with privilege of +extension. + +"I don't want to impose on your kindness," he said, "but I'd like +to chase around Hoboken and take in the sights, I've never been here +before." + +"There's a Bairns' Restaurant," said Warble, shyly, "we might go there." + + * * * * * + +They did. In a taxicab. He held her in his lap and told her the news. + +He had had his own rooms done over. Mediaeval setting. Romanesque +arches. Stained-glass windows. Sculptured cloisters. Good work. + +"How are the twins?" she asked, timidly. "Pleathe." + +"Fine. Miss you terribly--we all do. Butterfly Center mourns your loss. +Spring a come-back, won't you, Warble?" + +"You want me?" + +"More than anything in the world! I'm mad about you! You beauty! You +raving beauty! You'll be the talk of the world this winter. Gee, Warble, +how I can dress you, now you're thin! Won't Beer be astounded!" + + * * * * * + +That's the way things came to Warble. + +The only thing she wanted, her husband's love, now flung at her feet +in unstinted measure, pressed down and running over--love, slathers of +it--all for her! It was sweet--a pleasant change from pickles. + +"How's everybody?" + +"Here and there. Iva's gone." + +"Thank Heaven! Where'd she go?" + +"Dunno. Her husband took her off. Jealous of me." + +"H'm. And Daisy Snow?" + +"Gone into the movies. She grew too heavy for society. May Young's in +the Old Ladies' Home." + +"And Lotta Munn?" + +"Murdered by her husband. He had to kill her--she wouldn't support +him. The Leathershams are in the poorhouse, and Mrs. Charity Givens has +bought their place. Want to go on a second honeymoon? Round the world?" + +"Yop." + + * * * * * + +They went. One night, sitting on top of the Taj Mahal, 'neath the Blue +Moon of Persia, Warble cried, + +"Shall I go back to Butterfly Thenter--or shall I not?" + +"Spin a toddletop," said Petticoat, taking one from his pocket. + +She spun it and it came up pickle foundry. + +So Warble said, "All right, dear, I'll go home with you whenever you're +ready," and she kissed him slenderly. + + * * * * * + +Ptomaine Haul. + +Two Petticoats arriving. A happy Warble sprang from the car and seemed +fairly to skim up the steps. She passed, unnoticing, the pantry door, +and flew up to her own rooms which had been done over to suit her new +slenderness. + +"Beer," she cried, "look at me!" + +"Maddum!" cried the astounded Beer. "What done it?" + +"Unrequited love and pickles. I can wear sport clothes now!" + +"Maddum can wear anything or nothing!" declared Beer triumphantly. + +That night, Warble, her hands behind her, wafted into Petticoat's room. + +He sat on the edge of his bed, running lingerie ribbons in his +underwear. + +"I'll stay, always," Warble said, sidling up to him. "And I'm happy. +But..." + +"Look out! Don't let the cat get that bolt of ribbon to play with!" + +She smoothed his pillows and patted his sheets, while Petticoat glanced +at her a little suspiciously, from under his gabled eyebrows. + +"But I don't say that Butterfly Center is worth the ground it's built +on. I don't admit that Ptomaine Street is as useful as a Hoboken alley. +I don't admit that Art is any good at all. I've fought like a tiger +and I didn't make a dent on the Butterflies--but, I _have_ grown thin!" +"Sure, you bet you have!" said Petticoat, threading ribbon into his gold +bodkin. "Well, kiss me good night--here you--I see you! Don't you put +those caterpillars in my bed!" + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + +***** This file should be named 8386-8.txt or 8386-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/3/8/8386/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ptomaine Street + +Author: Carolyn Wells + + +Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8386] +This file was first posted on July 5, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + + + + +Text file produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PTOMAINE STREET + </h1> + <h3> + THE TALE OF WARBLE PETTICOAT + </h3> + <h2> + <br /> By Carolyn Wells + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + To Roberta Wolf Buehler My Beloved Friend + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_FORE"> FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>PTOMAINE STREET</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_FORE" id="link2H_FORE"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A certain Poet once opined + That life is earnest, life is real; + But some are of a different mind, + And turn to hear the Cap-bells peal. + Oft in this Vale of Smiles I've found + Foolishness makes the world go round. + + Ecclesiastes, Solomon, + And lots of those who've passed before us, + Denounced all foolishness and fun, + Not so the gay and blithesome Horace; + And Shakespeare's Jaques, somewhat hotly, + Declared the only wear is Motley! + + We mortals, fools are said to be; + And doesn't this seem rather nice? + I learn, on good authority, + That Fools inhabit Paradise! + Honored by kings they've always been; + And—you know where Fools may rush in. + + And so, with confidence unshaken, + In Cap and Bells, I strike the trail. + I know just how, because I've taken + A Correspondence Course by mail. + I find the Foolish life's less trouble + Than Higher, Strenuous or Double. + Dear Reader, small the boon I ask,— + Your gentle smile, to egg my wit on; + Lest people deem my earnest task + Not worth the paper it is writ on. + Well, at white paper's present worth, + That <i>would</i> be rather high-priced mirth! + + I hope you think my lines are bright, + I hope you trow my jests are clever; + If you approve of what I write + Then you and I are friends forever. + But if you say my stuff is rotten, + You are forgiven and forgotten. + + Though, as the old hymn runs, I may not + Sing like the angels, speak like Paul; + Though on a golden lyre I play not, + As David played before King Saul; + Yet I consider this production + A gem of verbalesque construction. + + So, what your calling, or your bent, + If clergy or if laity, + Fall into line. I'll be content + And plume me on my gayety, + If of the human file and rank + I can make nine-tenths smile,—and thank. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PTOMAINE STREET + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + On a Pittsburgh block, where three generations ago might have been heard + Indian war-whoops—yes, and the next generation wore hoops, too—a + girl child stood, in evident relief, far below the murky gray of the + Pittsburgh sky. + </p> + <p> + She couldn't see an Indian, not even a cigar store one, and she wouldn't + have noticed him anyway, for she was shaking with laughter. + </p> + <p> + A breeze, which had hurried across from New York for the purpose, blew her + hat off, but she recked not, and only tautened her hair ribbon with an + involuntary jerk just in time to prevent that going too. + </p> + <p> + A girl on a Pittsburgh block; bibulous, plastic, young; drinking the air + in great gulps, as she would later drink life. + </p> + <p> + It is Warble Mildew, expelled from Public School, and carolling with + laughter. + </p> + <p> + She had only attended for four weeks and they had been altogether wasted. + In her class there were several better girls, many brighter, one prettier, + but none fatter. The schoolgirls marveled at the fatness of her legs when, + skirts well tucked up, they all waded in the brook. Every cell of her body + was plump and she had dimples in her wrists. + </p> + <p> + And cheeks, like: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A satin pincushion pink, + Before rude pins have touched it. +</pre> + <p> + Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice and + her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls—you + know, sort of ringolets. + </p> + <p> + In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was + more dressed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Expelled! + </p> + <p> + That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on in + broad strokes—in great splashes—in slathers. + </p> + <p> + Expelled! And she had scarce dared hope for such a thing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To sound the humor of Warble. + </p> + <p> + She hated school. Books, restraint, routine, scratching slate pencils, gum + under desks, smells—all the set up palette of the schoolroom was not + to her a happy vehicle of self-expression. + </p> + <p> + Often, in hope of being sent home, she had let a rosy tongue-tip protrude + from screwed up red lips at teacher, but it had gone unpunished. + </p> + <p> + And now— + </p> + <p> + Now, rocking in triumphant, glorious mirth, her plump shoulders hunched in + very ecstasy, the child was on the peak! + </p> + <p> + Expelled! Oh, gee! + </p> + <p> + And all because she had put a caterpillar down Pearl Jane Tuttle's back. + One little, measly caterpillar. + </p> + <p> + Pearl Jane had sat right in front of her. + </p> + <p> + A loose neckband round a scrawny neck. + </p> + <p> + And when Pearl Jane wiggled, a space of neck between two thin, tight black + pigtails—a consequent safe-deposit that was fairly crying out to + have something dropped down it. + </p> + <p> + A caterpillar mooching along the schoolroom aisle—clearly sent by + Providence. + </p> + <p> + Helpless in the grip of an irresistible subconscious complex, Warble + scoops up the caterpillar and in an instant has fed him into the gaping + maw at the back of that loose gingham neckband. + </p> + <p> + Gr-r-r-r-rh! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That, then, is why Warble stood in such evident relief on the Pittsburgh + block. + </p> + <p> + Expelled! The world was hers! + </p> + <p> + It had always been hers, to be sure, but it was now getting bigger and + more hers every minute. + </p> + <p> + The very first day she went to school, a little boy said to her: + </p> + <p> + “Do you like me?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Warble. + </p> + <p> + The little boy gave her all his candy and his red balloon. + </p> + <p> + So you see, she had a way—and got away with it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Warble was an orphan. She had a paprika-seasoned sister, married to a + chiropodist, in Oshkosh. But for all that, she planned to earn her own + living. + </p> + <p> + And she had an ambition. At present beyond her grasp, yet so sure was she + of its ultimate attainment, that she shaped her entire cosmic + consciousness toward that end. Her ambition was not unique, perhaps not + unattainable. It had been achieved by others with seemingly little effort + and less skill; and though as yet, merely a radiant hope, Warble was + determined that some day she would gain her goal. + </p> + <p> + Her ambition was to get married. Her sister had; her mother had; she + politely assumed her grandmother had. + </p> + <p> + She would. + </p> + <p> + Often she imagined herself the heroine of delightful scenes she watched at + the cinema. She loved the slow unwinding of the story on the screen, but + when engaged with her imagination she hurried it on in haste to reach the + final close-up. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It was at no one's advice, but because of her own inner yearnings that + Warble took a job as waitress in a Bairns' Restaurant. + </p> + <p> + She reveled in the white tiles, the white gloss paint, the eternal + clearing-up and the clatter of flatware. She loved the flatware—it + always made her think of a wedding—sometimes of her own. + </p> + <p> + She adored the white-capped King Alfred baking his cakes in the window, + but merely as a fixture, as she adored the mute stacks of clean plates and + the piles of pathetic little serviettes. + </p> + <p> + In a more intimate and personal way she adored the pork and beans, the ham + and eggs, the corned beef and cabbage, and—importantly—the + gentle, easy-going puddings and cup custards. These things delighted her + soul and dimpled her body. + </p> + <p> + She was proud of her fellow-waitresses, proud of their aspirations (the + same as her own). + </p> + <p> + Having exceptional opportunity, Warble learned much of culinary art and + architecture, at least she became grounded in elementary alimentary + science. + </p> + <p> + She had little notebooks filled with rules for Parisian pastry, Hindu + recipes for curry; foreign dishes with modern American improvements. + </p> + <p> + Joyously she learned to make custard pie. This, as the tumultous future + proved, was indicative. + </p> + <p> + Only the little smiling gods of circumstance, wickedly winking at one + another, knew that when Warble whipped cream and beat eggs, she laid the + corner stone of a waiting Destiny, known as yet but to the blinking stars + above the murky Pittsburgh sky. + </p> + <p> + She was extravagant as to shoes and diet; and, on the whole, she felt that + she was living. + </p> + <p> + She was not mistaken. + </p> + <p> + She went to dances, but though sometimes she toddled a bit, mostly she sat + out or tucked in. + </p> + <p> + During her three years as a waitress several customers looked at her with + interest though without much principle. + </p> + <p> + The president of a well-known bank, the proprietor of a folding-bed + concern, a retired plumber, a Divinity student and a ticket-chopper. + </p> + <p> + None of these made her bat an eyelash. + </p> + <p> + For months no male came up for air. Then, the restaurant door swung back + on its noiseless check and spring, and in walked Big Bill Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + The Petticoats were one of the oldest and pride-fullest of New England + families. So that settles the status of the Petticoats. A couple of them + came over in the <i>Mayflower</i>, with the highboys and cradles and + things, and they founded the branch of Connecticut Petticoats—than + which, of course, there is nothing more so. + </p> + <p> + Of course, the Petticoats were not in the very upper circles of society, + not in the Dress Circle, so to speak, but they formed a very necessary + foundation, they stood for propriety and decency, and the Petticoats were + stiff enough to stand alone. + </p> + <p> + Another fine old New England family, the Cottons. + </p> + <p> + Intermarriage linked the two, and the Cotton-Petticoats crowded all other + ancient and honorable names off the map of Connecticut and nodded + condescendingly to the Saltonwells and Hallistalls. Abbotts and Cabots + tried to patronize them, but the plain unruffled Cotton-Petticoats held + their peace and their position. + </p> + <p> + The present scion, Dr. Petticoat, was called Big Bill, not because of his + name or stature, but because of the size of his bills. He presented them + quarterly, and though his medicine was optional—the patient could + take it or leave it—the bills had to be paid. + </p> + <p> + Wherefore Dr. Petticoat was at the head of his profession financially. + Also by reputation and achievement, for he had the big idea. + </p> + <p> + He was a specialist, and, better yet, a specialist in Ptomaine Poisoning. + </p> + <p> + Rigidly did he adhere to his chosen line, never swerving to right or left. + People might die on one side of him from water on the brain and on the + other side from water on the palate, not a prescription could they get out + of Big Bill Petticoat unless they could put up unmistakable symptoms of + ptomaine poisoning. + </p> + <p> + And he was famous. People brought their ptomaines to him from the far + places, his patients included the idlest rich, the bloatedest aristocrats, + the most profitable of the profiteers. His Big Bill system worked well, + and he was rich beyond the most Freudian dreams of avarice. + </p> + <p> + As to appearance, Petticoat was very pretty, with that fresh rosy beauty + that is so attractive. His walnut hair was fine and silky, but a permanent + wave made it fuzz forth in a bushy crinkle that was distractingly lovely. + His tweezed eyebrows were arched to a perfect span and his finger nails + showed a piano polish. + </p> + <p> + His features were cold-chiseled and his coloring was exquisite. In fact, + his coloring was too good to be true, and no wonder, for it came out of a + very modern and up-to-date six-cylinder makeup box. + </p> + <p> + His lips looked as if they were used to giving orders in restaurants, and + he wore clothes which you could never quite forget. + </p> + <p> + Warble edged toward the stranger, and murmured nothing in particular, but + somehow he drifted into the last and only vacant seat at her table. + </p> + <p> + She whisked him a 2 x 2 napkin, dumped a clatter of flatware at him, and + stood, awaiting his order. + </p> + <p> + The pause becoming lengthy, she murmured with her engaging smile, “Whatcha + want to eat?” + </p> + <p> + “Pleased to eat you,” he responded, looking at her as though she was an + agreeable discovery. + </p> + <p> + Small wonder, for Warble was so peachy and creamy, so sweet and delectable + that she was a far more appetizing sight than most viands are. She smiled + again—engagingly this time, too. + </p> + <p> + Thus in the Painted Vale of Huneker, Vamp and Victim beguiled the hours. + Thus, and not in treacled cadences, intrigued Mariar and Sir Thomas in the + back alley. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it here?” asked the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Yop. But sometimes I feel wasted—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't look wasted—” + </p> + <p> + “No—” after a hasty glance in the wall mirror. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you get sick of the sight of food?” + </p> + <p> + “Here, oh, no! I don't know any lovelier sight than our kitchens—yes, + yes, sir, I'll get your pied frotatoes at oneth.” + </p> + <p> + When Warble was a bit frustrated or embarrassed, she often inverted her + initials and lisped. It was one of her ways. + </p> + <p> + The other clients at her table had no intention of being neglected while + their Pickfordian waitress smiled engagingly on a newcomer. + </p> + <p> + It was the iceman who had hollered. He seemed to be merely a red-faced + inanimate object, that worked by strange and compound levers. + </p> + <p> + Next him was a hat-check girl, a queenly person who communed with + something set in the lid of her vanity case, and fed on chicken à la king. + </p> + <p> + Then there was a newsboy, whose all-observant eyes darted about + everywhere, the while he absorbed baked beans and ketchup. + </p> + <p> + An old maid shopper. She merely brooded over her worn and pencil-scored + memorandum, and muttered of fringe and buttons as she spilled tea on her + samples of Navy blue foulard. + </p> + <p> + A blind man. Of no interest save that he had a calm and gentle demeanor + and was the only one who didn't spill things. His face wore a grieved but + resigned look, as if something had died in his scrambled eggs. The iceman, + who had the hard, set jaw of a prize fighter was successfully eating + steak, and he welcomed the incoming fried potatoes, as one greets a new + instalment of a serial. + </p> + <p> + It was a fat and pink and lovely Warble who at last trotted back with + Petticoat's order. + </p> + <p> + The great specialist had an unbridled passion for pie, and throwing + restraint to the winds he had ordered three kinds. The wedges Warble + brought were the very widest she could wheedle from the head pie-cutter—and + Warble was some wheedler, especially when she coaxed prettily for a big + pieth of cuthtard. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat looked at her again as she came, pie-laden. + </p> + <p> + Her cap was a bit askew, but her eyes weren't. In her white linen dress + and apron and white cap, her little pink face looked to Petticoat's + appraising glance like a postage stamp on an expanse of white linen + envelope. + </p> + <p> + Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put + his foot in it. Yet he did. + </p> + <p> + “May I see you again sometime?” he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's + ogling and the iceman's cold stare. + </p> + <p> + Warble made a face at him. It was one of her ways. + </p> + <p> + “What's your address?” he asked. “You can ask the Boss—if you really + want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Want to know! Say, you waitress!” + </p> + <p> + Of the love-making of Warble and Big Bill Petticoat there is nothing to be + reported which may not be read in any Satevepost serial, which may not be + heard at any summer resort, in any winter garden. They were zoology and + history. Their speech was free silver and their silence was golden. + </p> + <p> + It was a non-stop courtship. All the plump beauty of youth and all the + assured complacence of a well-to-do married man kept them up in the air. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat wasn't a married man, but he had their technique. + </p> + <p> + They took a walk, and followed a roundabout way. Then they sat on a bank, + and his arm followed a roundabout way. + </p> + <p> + She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin frock + and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink roses, and + roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat was charmed. + </p> + <p> + “Golly, but I love you, Warble!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but she touched the upper edge of the wallet in his + breast pocket with an exploring gesture. + </p> + <p> + “You think I'm too darn aesthetic! Well, you're not, and so we ought to + mate. We're complementary to one another, like air and sunshine or light + and shade.” + </p> + <p> + “Or pork and beans, or pie and cheese.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, or like stout and porter—I'll be the porter, oh—what's + the use of talking? Let my lips talk to you!” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her cheek, imprinting thereon a Cupid's bow, by reason of his + own addiction to the lipstick. + </p> + <p> + Warble rubbed it off with the back of her hand, and said, “Oh, pleathe—pleathe.” + </p> + <p> + She wondered if she ought to have said thank you, but it was only a + drifting thought and she turned the other cheek. Then she smiled her + engaging smile and they were engaged. + </p> + <p> + Later in the game, she said, with pretty diffidence, “I would like to thee + Butterfly Thenter.” And she blushed like the inside of those pink meat + melons. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it!” and Petticoat produced a pile of Sunday Picture Supplements. + </p> + <p> + Her cheek nested in his permanent wave, Warble studied the pictures. + </p> + <p> + They were the last word in artistic architecture. Truly, Butterfly Center, + where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless Town and + Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching trees, sublimated + houses, glorified shops—it seemed to Warble like a flitter-work + Christmas card from the drug-store. + </p> + <p> + “How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?” he jollied + her. + </p> + <p> + “It might be—a lark—” she dubioused. + </p> + <p> + “But here's the picture!” and proudly he exhibited a full length view of + his own home. + </p> + <p> + “Ptomaine Haul,” he exploited, proudly. “Built every inch of it from the + busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's the + sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now—he has a corking + château—French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens—she has a + Georgian shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most + profitable patients—sick all the time.” + </p> + <p> + Warble studied the pictures. + </p> + <p> + “What expensive people,” she said, “dear—so dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come on, + Warble, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” she murmured, from his coat pocket, “Sweet, so sweet.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. A + soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz + awnings of the Butterfly Center station. + </p> + <p> + A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit. + </p> + <p> + From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening spaces + and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate. + </p> + <p> + It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled. + </p> + <p> + The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped, rose-cheeked + girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she looked about. + </p> + <p> + About what? + </p> + <p> + About eighteen. + </p> + <p> + They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble. + </p> + <p> + They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous loving. + </p> + <p> + It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how + hungry she could be even on a wedding trip. + </p> + <p> + Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist and a + pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their home town. People + were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen them before. But these + were her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn—and, they + didn't seem to need it. + </p> + <p> + They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that there is + no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris. + </p> + <p> + But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station were + hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and + physically, literally butterflies. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't there any way of waking them up?” she begged of Petticoat, grabbing + his arm and shaking him. + </p> + <p> + “These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy.” + </p> + <p> + “But they're so smug—no, that isn't what I mean. They're so + stick-in-the-mud.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a + woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff and + mischief.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all down + here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you behave + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yop.” + </p> + <p> + She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with them + all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like Coney + Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls. + </p> + <p> + She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, embracing + arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they were taking + her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pleathe—pleathe,” she lisped. + </p> + <p> + In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled + white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink calf, + Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As soft as young, + As gay as soft, +</pre> + <p> + and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her. + </p> + <p> + Not so the remainder of the citizens. + </p> + <p> + One of the men was yelling at Petticoat: + </p> + <p> + “Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours—I'll tote the bride-person + you've got there—with joy and gladness.” Warble looked at the + yeller. + </p> + <p> + “Can't quite place me, chick, can you?” he grinned at her. “Well I'm only + old Goldwin Leathersham—no use for me in the world but to spend + money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing—step up + here, Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than she looks, Mrs. + Petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I'm not,” Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, “I couldn't be—nobody + could be!” + </p> + <p> + She came running—a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of + expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a lavish + smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away from and + through Warble, yet she saw her. + </p> + <p> + “So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby,” she chirruped. “You're going to + love us all, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile. + </p> + <p> + “You bet she'll love us,” declared Leathersham, “she'll make the world go + round! Hello, Little One,” he turned to pat the cheek of a white-haired, + red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, stood by, listening in. + “This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs. Charity Givens—noted + for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads all Donation Lists, and she's + going to start a rest cure where your husband's unsuccessful cases may die + in peace. And here's one of the cases. Hello, Iva Payne!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily—a + Burne-Jones type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass + window to rest her head against. + </p> + <p> + “Are you really Bill's wife?” she asked, a little disinterestedly, of + Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” said Warble, and made a face at her. + </p> + <p> + “How quaint,” said Iva. + </p> + <p> + “Whoopee, Baby! Here we are,” and Petticoat rescued his bride from the + middle of a crowd and yanked her toward his car. + </p> + <p> + The car was a museum piece, and as Warble caromed into its cushions she + felt that her lines had fallen in pleasant places. + </p> + <p> + That was the way Fate came to Warble. In big fat chunks, in slathers. + Unexpected, sudden, inescapable—that's Fate all over. + </p> + <p> + “I shall like Mr. Leathersham—I shall call him Goldie. They're all + nice and friendly—the men. But this town! Oh, my Heavens! This Jewel + Casket—this Treasure Table! I can't live through it! This Floating + Island of a Tipsy Charlotte!” Her husband nudged her. “You look like you + had a pain,” he said; “Scared? I don't expect you to fit in at first. You + have to get eased into things. It's different from Pittsburgh. But you'll + come to like it—love is so free here, and the smartest people on + earth.” + </p> + <p> + She winked at him. “I love you for your misunderstanding. I'm just + dog-tired. And too many chocolates. Give me a rest, dear. I'm all in from + wear sheeriness.” + </p> + <p> + She laid her feet in his lap and snuggled into the corner of the + pearl-colored upholstery. + </p> + <p> + She was ready for her new home, beautiful, celebrated Ptomaine Haul. + Petticoat told her that his mother had been living with him, but had fled + incontinently on hearing a description of Warble. + </p> + <p> + The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a + corner and stopped under the <i>porte cochère</i> of a great house set in + the midst of a landscape. + </p> + <p> + Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves. + </p> + <p> + A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great + porch, and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield. + </p> + <p> + A great hall—at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the + right, a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride. + </p> + <p> + “You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is—in case you + care to rebuild or redecorate.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a sweet home—” she was touched by his indifference. “So + artistic.” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, carelessly, + “Yes, home is where the art is,” and let it go at that. + </p> + <p> + In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and + magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller + skates. + </p> + <p> + As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, she + quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth. + </p> + <p> + She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had realized + her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the final + close-up. + </p> + <p> + What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt, + and admire his rich and expensive clothing. + </p> + <p> + “Dear—so dear—” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + “The Leathershams are giving a ball for us to-night,” Petticoat said, + casually, as he powdered his nose in the recesses of his triplicate + mirror. + </p> + <p> + “A ball?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mean a dance—I mean—er—well, what you'd + call a sociable, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ain't we got fun!” + </p> + <p> + “And, I say, Warble, I've got to chase a patient now; can you hike about a + bit by yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Course I can. Who's your patient?” + </p> + <p> + “Avery Goodman—the rector of St. Judas' church. He will eat terrapin + made out of—you know what. And so, he's all tied up in knots with + ptomaine poisoning and I've got to straighten him out. It means a lot to + us, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I know; skittle.” + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Warble proceeded systematically to examine the interior of + Ptomaine Haul. She gazed about her own bedroom and a small part of its + exquisite beauty dawned upon her. It was an exact copy of Marie + Antoinette's and the delicately carved furniture and pale blue upholstery + and hangings harmonized with the painted domed ceiling and paneled walls. + </p> + <p> + The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as + Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to the + embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole. + </p> + <p> + The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets, such + as Warble had not smelled since before the war. + </p> + <p> + “Can you beat it,” she groaned. “How can I live with doodads like this?” + She saw the furniture as a circle of hungry restaurant customers ready to + eat her up. She kicked the dozen lace pillows off the head of the bed. + </p> + <p> + “No utility anywhere,” she cried. “Everything futile, inutile, brutal! I + hate it! I hate it! Why did I ever—” + </p> + <p> + And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled Petticoat—not + one of those that Oliver Herford so pathetically dubbed “the short and + simple flannels of the poor.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, she was now a Petticoat—one of the aristocratic + Cotton-Petticoats, washable, to be sure, but a dressy Frenchy Petticoat, + and as such she must take her place on the family clothesline. + </p> + <p> + She drifted from oriel window to casement, and on to a great becurtained + and becushioned bay, and looked out on the outlook. + </p> + <p> + She saw gardens like the Tuileries and Tuilerums, soft, shining pools, + little skittering fountains, marble Cupids and gay-tinted flowers. This + was the scene for her to look down upon and live up to. + </p> + <p> + “I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon! Am I sick?... Good + Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! I'd hate it—I'd be scared to + death! Some day—but, please, kind Fate, not now! I don't want to go + down now with ptomaine poisoning! Not till after I've had my dinner! I'm + going out for a walk.” + </p> + <p> + When Warble had plodded along for six hours, she had pretty well done up + the town. + </p> + <p> + Ptomaine Street, which took its name from her husband's own residence, was + a wide, leafy avenue with a double row of fine old trees on each side. + They were Lebbek trees, and the whole arrangement was patterned after the + avenue which Josephine built for Napoleon, out to the Mena House. + </p> + <p> + She passed the homes of the most respectable citizens. Often they were set + back from the road, and the box hedges or tall iron fences prevented her + from seeing the houses. But she saw enough and sped on to the more + interesting business and shopping section of Butterfly Center. + </p> + <p> + She passed Ariel Inn, the hotel being like a Swiss Chalet, perched on some + convenient rocks that rose to a height above street level. A few fairly + nimble chamois were leaping over these rocks and Warble heard a fairy-like + chime of bells as afternoon tea was announced. + </p> + <p> + A man in an artist's smock sauntered across the street. A palette on one + thumb, he scratched his chin with the other. A hearse, its long box filled + with somebody, crawled down the block. A dainty Sedan with a woman's idle + face at its window wafted by. From a Greek Temple came the sound of + Interpretative Dancing, and the applause of perfunctory hands. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to elope. Her own ideas of utility, efficiency, and economy + were being shattered—broken in pieces like a potter's vessel. Her + sense of proportion, her instinct for relative values, her abhorrence of + waste motion, her inborn system and method, all were swept away as a thief + in the night. Could she reform this giddy whirl? Could she bring chaos out + of cosmos? Was her own ego sufficient to egg her on in her chosen work? + </p> + <p> + She haed her doots. + </p> + <p> + She maundered down the street on one side—back on the other. + </p> + <p> + Dudie's Drug-store was like unto a Turkish Mosque. Minaret and pinnaret, + battlement and shuttle-door, it was a perfect drug-store, nobly planned. + The long flight of steps leading up to its ptortal was a masterpiece in + the step line. + </p> + <p> + Inside, the Soda Pagoda was a joy of temple bells and soft, sweet drinks, + while at the prescription counter, the line formed on the right, to get + Dr. Petticoat's prescriptions filled for their ptomaines. + </p> + <p> + A Moldavian Incense Shop was the barber's; a half-timbered house sold + English-built clothes; a brick affair of Georgian influences and splendid + lines, housed the hardware needed by the Butterflies, and the milliner's + was a replica of the pyramid of Cestus. + </p> + <p> + The bank was the Vatican, with Swiss guards in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + Perpetual waste motion! In all the town not one building that connoted to + Warble the apotheosis of efficiency shown by the King Alfred tossing cakes + in the window of Bairns' Restaurant. Not a dozen buildings that even + suggested use in addition to their beauty. + </p> + <p> + And the street was cluttered with trees in tubs, window boxes, sudden + little fountains or statues; gilded wicker birdcages on tall poles—songs + issuing therefrom. + </p> + <p> + Arbors, covered with pink Dorothy Perkinses, here and there by the + curbside. And, worst of all, people sitting idle in the arbors. Idle! + </p> + <p> + She wouldn't have cared so much, if the people had been busy—even + one of them. She fought herself. “I must be wrong. It can't be as silly as + it looks! It can't!” + </p> + <p> + She went home and found Petticoat waiting for her. + </p> + <p> + “Like the burg, eh? Great stuff, what? Not an eyesore inside the city + wall. Good work, I'll megaphone.” + </p> + <p> + Warble sat down in an easy-going chair—so easy, it slid across the + room with her, and collided with a life-sized Chinese lady of yellow + stone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Warble responded, “it's very uninteresting.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Goldwin Leathersham was a great Captain of Industry. In fact, he put the + dust in industry, or, at least, he took it out of it. He got it, anyway. + </p> + <p> + His home was an Aladdin's Palace, with a slight influence of Solomon's + Temple. Gold was his keynote, and he was never off the key. + </p> + <p> + When our Petticoats arrived at the party, they were met by gold-laced + footmen, who whisked them into shape and passed them along. + </p> + <p> + Warble found herself in a white and gold salon, so vast, that she felt + like a goldfish out of water. The place looked as if Joseph Urban had + designed it after he had died and gone to Golconda. Whatever wasn't white + was gold, and the other way round. The gold piano had only white keys, and + the draperies were cloth of gold with bullion fringe. All real, too—no + rolled or plated stuff. + </p> + <p> + A huge coat-of-arms in a gold frame announced that Mr. Leathersham was + descended from the Gold Digger Indians, a noble ancestry indeed; and it + was no secret that his wife had played in “The Gold-diggers,” during its + second decade run. + </p> + <p> + Marigold Leathersham was a charming hostess, and greeted Warble with a + shriek of welcome. “You duck,” she cried; “how heavenly of you to dress so + well.” + </p> + <p> + Warble was simply attired in a white pussy-willow silk underslip. In her + haste and excitement she had forgotten to add the gown meant to go over + it, and as she wore no jewels save the chased gold lingerie clasps at her + shoulders, the result was a simplicity as charming as it was + unintentional. + </p> + <p> + And so she made a hit. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble; a hit—a social success—and + all because she forgot to put on her frock. + </p> + <p> + She mingled with the glittering throng of gilded youth, of golden lads and + girls, of gilt-edged married people, and found herself in the arms of + Goldwin Leathersham, her host. + </p> + <p> + “Here comes the bride,” he shouted, as he piloted her about and introduced + everybody to her. + </p> + <p> + “This demure little beauty,” he said, “is Daisy Snow. Note her sweet, pure + face and wide-eyed, innocent gaze.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all so new—so wonderful—” Miss Snow breathed, “I'm a + débutante, you know, and I have scarcely butterflied out of my chrysalis + yet. How splendid the Leathershams are. He has a heart of gold. Oh, he is + such a good man, he says his life motto is the Golden Rule.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mrs. Leathersham?” asked Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Marigold? Oh, yes, she's as good as gold, too. We're firm friends.” + </p> + <p> + Warble was agog to mingle, so she moved on. + </p> + <p> + Le Grand Paynter, a celebrated Cubic artist, fascinated her with his + flowing locks, flowing tie and marvelous flow of conversation. He asked to + paint her as a Semi-nude Descending a Ladder, but she only said she must + refer him to her Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + Freeman Scattergood, the well-known philanthropist was chatting with Mrs. + Charity Givens, who was the champion Subscription List Header. Many had + tried to oust her from this enviable position but without success. Near + them stood Avery Goodman, the rector, and he was deeply engaged in a + flirtation with Miss May Young, one of his choir girls. + </p> + <p> + Manley Knight, a returned soldier, was resplendent with a Croix de Guerre, + a Hot Cross Bun and many other Noughts and Crosses. + </p> + <p> + Warble fingered them in her light way. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't he splendid!” babbled Daisy Snow the <i>ingénue</i>; “Oh, how + wonderful to offer one's life for glory! You can fairly see the heroism + bubble out of his eyes!” + </p> + <p> + “How you admire him!” said Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he doesn't care for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not specially,” admitted Manley Knight. “Yes,” Daisy said. “He thinks me + too ignorant and unsophisticated—and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, + the heiress—she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to + Lotta. I think it will be a real love match—like the Trues.” + </p> + <p> + “The Trues?” asked Warble, politely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart + from the rest, on a small divan. “They're wonderful! Herman True is the + most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his + wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And + they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what a + fate!” + </p> + <p> + Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of cold + boiled ham. + </p> + <p> + But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of + cocktails. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a débutante so did Judge + Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a + Prohibitionist. + </p> + <p> + A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked Daisy + who she might be. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's Iva Payne—you met her, you know. She's very delicate, a + semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't exactly + know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to the + doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat—I believe she brings + her own specially prepared food to parties. + </p> + <p> + “She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right,” Warble commented. + </p> + <p> + “I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her—she is not at + all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no! I'm a débutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I + take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a + thousand.” + </p> + <p> + This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the + matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her + mother permitted. + </p> + <p> + Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some débutante also, + for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly + interested in the whole matter. + </p> + <p> + She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded + toward the dining-room. But no such luck. + </p> + <p> + Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the + crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, + facing a platform as large as a theater stage. + </p> + <p> + An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous + applause. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery + Goodman, “an impersonator?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist—rants on Fourth Avenue + dimensions, or something like that.” + </p> + <p> + In a tone of forceful mildness the speaker began: “It must be conceded + that, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all + insensate communication, that a psychic moment may or may not, in + accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, + become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a + trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, no + feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable demand + of endurance. + </p> + <p> + “Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the investiture + of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in accordance with + what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, to become warily + regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof of a smouldering + discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a trenchant humor, it + may or may not be warily regarded. + </p> + <p> + “Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to psychic + action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of disregarded + symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power of doubt, + considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our argument as + faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the corollary reasoning + must be that no premise is or may be capable of such conclusion as will + render it sublunary to its agreed parallel. + </p> + <p> + “But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution. + </p> + <p> + “We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is + impossible in connection with neo-psychology.” + </p> + <p> + There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan + soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for + Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones. + </p> + <p> + Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but + the music went inexorably on. + </p> + <p> + It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet. + </p> + <p> + This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the + applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of his + beard. + </p> + <p> + By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever and + she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy Snow, + and it was not Warble's way to cut in. + </p> + <p> + In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions from + the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, and + Warble went back to sleep. + </p> + <p> + There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was cleared + for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a small + glass of punch and a wafer to each. + </p> + <p> + Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper + buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys. + </p> + <p> + Warble and Petticoat reached home. + </p> + <p> + “Howja like 'em?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so hungry,” she wailed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It isn't + done. Watch Iva Payne—she doesn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill—” Warble began to cry. “I want to go back to the + restaurant—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no—now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're + a smart crowd—” + </p> + <p> + Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled up + her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and waited + to be kissed. + </p> + <p> + She was. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a + built-in English bed, with gray draperies. + </p> + <p> + Through a cloth of silver portiére, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. + Oxidized silver plumbing exposure. + </p> + <p> + No pictures on the walls, save one—a barbaric Russian panel by + Larrovitch. + </p> + <p> + At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk—all gray. + </p> + <p> + A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon it + and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the quarrel. + </p> + <p> + “They took to you,” he said, “you went like hot cakes!” + </p> + <p> + It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging + smile, wheedled, “Pleathe, pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Petticoat said, inexorably, “if you eat all the time you'll get to + look like that soprano. Howja like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're my—well, + you're my soulmate.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my + appetite—you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about his + neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Warble's own maid was named Beer. + </p> + <p> + A French thing—so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied + with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that + displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris reported + skirts going up or down as the case might be. + </p> + <p> + A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, + and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll. + </p> + <p> + Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it impossible. + Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard sauce off a hot + apple dumpling. + </p> + <p> + “Do you get enough to eat, Beer?” her mistress asked her. + </p> + <p> + “Wee, maddum,” the maid replied, in her pretty War French. “I eat but a + small.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't drop to pieces, that's all,” warned Warble. As to personal + care and adornment the hitherto neglected education of Warble Petticoat + was in Beer's hands. And she handed it out with unstinted lavishness. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble; in slathers—in big fat + chunks. In avalanches and rushing torrents. + </p> + <p> + Beer engineered all her new wardrobe, and received sealed proposals for + its construction. + </p> + <p> + Beer taught her the mysteries of the toilette table, and once initiated + into this entrancing art, Warble let herself go in the matter of cosmetics + and make-ups, and could scarce wait for Beer's afternoon out, to dabble + about by herself. + </p> + <p> + Beer taught her how to wear jewelry, and directed what pieces she should + ask Petticoat for next. + </p> + <p> + Altogether, Warble was trying out things—but carefully, as a good + housewife tries out lard. + </p> + <p> + And she was not yet certain as to the results. Environment has to reckon, + now and then with heredity. + </p> + <p> + Warble, at soul, all for utility, economy, diligence and efficiency, + transplated to Butterfly Center, with its keynote of careless idleness, + waste motion and extravagance. + </p> + <p> + One must win out. Had she a Dempsey of a heredity against a Carpentier of + an environment? Or was it the other way round? + </p> + <p> + She planned to reform Butterfly Center, to do away with the street + statues, the useless patches of flowers; tear down and rebuild the + ridiculous classic architecture of many of the shops and substitute good + solid livable houses for the castles and châteaux, the barracks and + bungalows that adorned the residence section. + </p> + <p> + These reforms she meant to bring about shortly, but first, she must begin + with her home. + </p> + <p> + In her pride of being a Petticoat she loved every detail of Ptomaine Haul. + Yet she knew it did not express herself, it was not the keynote of her own + Warbling personality. + </p> + <p> + What to do. + </p> + <p> + She sat in her boudoir, its mauve walls and gold Japanese screens + backgrounding her plump prettiness, as she lolled on a gold brocade <i>chaise + longue</i>. + </p> + <p> + She glanced out at the peacocks strutting in the Italian garden and + listened to the rooks cawing in the cypresses between the marble urns on + the terrace steps. + </p> + <p> + It was a big proposition to change all that. To turn the bird sticks into + pruning hooks and the bird baths into plowshares. + </p> + <p> + Could she do it? + </p> + <p> + Doubtful. + </p> + <p> + She went out into the hall and looked over the rail of the great rotunda. + Rugs hung from the rail, as it might be a Turkish Monday. + </p> + <p> + Below, she could see the lake in the front hall, also she could glimpse + the armored bronze Petticoats guarding the entrance that led to the + corridor that led to the hall leading into the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + It was well nigh hopeless. + </p> + <p> + Warble sighed. Then she rang for Beer and ordered some French pastry and a + cup of chocolate. + </p> + <p> + Revived and revivified, Warble decided on a mad dash for reform. + </p> + <p> + Ordering Beer to dress her quickly, she did all she could to help, and + soon, in a daring combination of canary, black and coral, she was on her + way to the shops. + </p> + <p> + She achieved what is known as a utility box, and which is compounded of + matting and a few bamboo strips. + </p> + <p> + This she caused to be set up in her boudoir. + </p> + <p> + Came Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + No oral observations, but the next day an antique Florentine chest, carved + by Dante, replaced the box. + </p> + <p> + “Just as utile,” Bill remarked, “and a lot more expensive. Kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + That is the way the Petticoats of this world decree, and that is the way + the Warbles submit. + </p> + <p> + That Thursday afternoon she was in love with her husband. She toddled into + his room to talk to him. She was in pastel chiffon boudoir jambiéres + picked out with rosebuds. She sat, cross-legged, on one of his gray satin + floor pillows and looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat was just going out and he sat before the mirror, earnestly + adjusting a hair net over his permanent. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, <i>Fruit Mousse</i>,” he said, half absent-mindedly, as he went on + adjusting. + </p> + <p> + Big Bill Petticoat was far from being effeminate. He was found of + aesthetics and anaesthetics, and his chief interests in life were beauty + and his big bills. + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of beauty, if a thing isn't useful?” Warble would ask, and + Petticoat would reply, “What's the use of use, anyway? There's no use in + having anything that isn't beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + And as the house was under Petticoat rule, Big Bill won out. + </p> + <p> + “You must have a party, Warble,” Petticoat said, as he fitted a long, slim + cigarette into a long, slim holder. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather have a baby,” and she looked up at him inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Honest, Warbie, I can't afford it. I've lots of money, but we take a lot + of keeping ourselves, and to keep a baby means almost a whole extra + establishment. Let's wait till I've saved up a bit, or we have a windfall. + Leathersham owes me a small fortune for his cook's ptomaine cases—she's + always getting poisoned with her imported canned things—but Goldie's + slow pay, and too, I want to make a few improvements on the place. I'm + thinking of bringing over a Moorish Courtyard intact—nice, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “What's it good for?” demanded Warble. “We've done our courting, and + anyway—look here, Bill, there's only three things I can do. Have a + baby—” + </p> + <p> + “Cut it out, Warb; I haven't the means just now. And it might be twins.” + </p> + <p> + “That's so. Well, the second thing is to reform this town. It's going to + the dogs—to little, silly Pekes and Poms. I can save it, and correct + its ways and put it on a sound utilitarian basis.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't believe you could do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Can do. But the third trick is to flop over to their side and be like the + town people myself.” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat laughed outright. + </p> + <p> + “Nixy on that, Warble, my duck. You'd have to reduce.” + </p> + <p> + “I speck I should. Well, then the reform act for mine. I've got to do + something, Pet, to keep amused and interested.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said. Have a party.” + </p> + <p> + “I will. And it will be part of the reform. These people are too highbrow. + Too soulful. Too artistic—” + </p> + <p> + “Warble! How many times have I told you <i>never</i> to use that word! + Now, look here, if you want to play at reforming, go ahead, nobody will + interfere with you. But where'll you get time? You spend most of your + waking hours in slumber, and the rest, eating. You're a sweet, lovely, + cuddly thing, but if you keep on, some day you'll find you can't get your + kimono together.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll wear two. But, Bill, I'm not so big, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Warble up, and parading the room with a martial air. + </p> + <p> + “You're a perfect Bellona!” Petticoat said, smiling at her. + </p> + <p> + “A Bologna! Oh, you horrid thing! But that reminds me I haven't had + sausage lately. I must speak to cook. Now, about my party.” + </p> + <p> + “Have a good one while you're about it. I might import a Spanish Ballet—” + </p> + <p> + “You might do nothing of the sort! This is to be my party, and I shall run + it to suit myself.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Tutti Frutti; you have no subtlety or poetry in your soul—indeed, + I doubt if you have a soul—but you're a dear and a sweet—” + </p> + <p> + “Bill, I've an idea! Build bureaus right down to the floor and then collar + buttons can't roll under them!” + </p> + <p> + “Fine idea! Better patent it. Must go. Goodby.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute. Mrs. Holm Boddy is coming to see me to-day. What's she + like?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she's a hen-minded Hetty with cabriole legs. Don't bother with her + much. They're lower case people—tin pergola and pebble garden sort. + And early Victorian bathrooms. You won't like her—freeze her out.” + </p> + <p> + “All righty. Say—Billy dear—has you any choclums?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for little gourmands,” he took her in his arms. “I say, Warbie, you + promised to cut out sweets. Look here.” + </p> + <p> + He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning + ancestors looked down in painted disapproval. + </p> + <p> + They were all slender—wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a + fatty in the bunch. + </p> + <p> + Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care!” Warble exploded, angrily. “If you don't give me enough to + eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And you + needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care <i>that</i> for + them!” + </p> + <p> + She snapped a dimpled pink thumb and forefinger at the whole exhibit, made + a face at the skinniest one of all, and then sneaked casually into Bill's + arms. + </p> + <p> + “Nice, nice,” she cooed, patting his mastoid process. “Run along now, and + I'll plan my party.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “That Boddy woman,” remarked Beer, as she dressed Warble; “she is a pest—a + pill! Wait, Maddum, I beg you! I've only rouged one of your cheeks!” + </p> + <p> + “That's enough,” said Warble, inattentively, and she danced down stairs to + freeze out her caller. + </p> + <p> + “I've been meaning to come for some time,” Mrs. Holm Boddy said, “but I + thought I'd give you a chance to get a little used to your new grandeur. + Quite a change for you, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Warble, “it's rather a come down. I've always been very grand. + Tell me about yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm the old-fashioned wife and mother. Devoted to my home, and my + family. I deplore the modern tendency to neglect one's own fireside.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should think you'd be happier there than anywhere else.” + </p> + <p> + Warble gazed at her guest. She was a tall, angular woman, so gaunt that + her bones rattled. Warble wondered if Bill would really like her to be + like that. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am. My dear husband, my darling children—you ought to have a + lot of children, Mrs. Petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I shall, when we can afford it. My husband isn't very well off just + now, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “You live very extravagantly. Look at those rugs, now. Rugs cost + fearfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you have any?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. We don't waste money that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Bare floors?” + </p> + <p> + “No, carpets. More homey, you know. Nice Brussels in the parlor—real + Body Brussels—Bigelow—and in the bedrooms, Ingrain. Oh, the + hominess of a new-laid Ingrain carpet, with lots of fresh straw under it! + You acquainted with Avery Goodman, the Rector?” + </p> + <p> + “I've met him.” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid man-spiritual-minded and all that. Fine preacher, too. Very + soulful. I often sob right through his sermons. Better go hear him.” + </p> + <p> + “My husband is a busy man—we haven't time for church.” + </p> + <p> + “No, spose not. Doctors are kept on the jump. Specially specialists. And I + know your husband is busy. Say, is there any truth in the report that he + pays the grocers and delicatessen men to get—you know—doubtful + canned goods, and not too fresh sea foods and all that—so there'll + be more ptomaine cases?” + </p> + <p> + “What a good idea!” Warble cried. “I had not heard of it, but if Bill does + that he's more efficient than I thought him!” + </p> + <p> + “I spose he's terribly in love with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Bill? Oh, yes. We adore each other.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know. The Petticoats are all so thin—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a change is always pleasant.” Warble gave her engaging smile. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. That Daisy Snow now—she's so pretty <i>and</i> slender. Dr. + Petticoat seems mighty fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know what doctors are. Nice to everybody, of course. There's no + telling who'll have ptomaine poisoning next.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you can always tell that. It's sure to be Iva Payne. She's awful + attractive, too. You must be worried about your man, Mrs. Petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “I do worry a lot. It keeps my flesh down. Tell me more to worry about.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of + your own?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right.” + </p> + <p> + “You are! Why, where did your husband get you?” + </p> + <p> + “He got me out of a mail catalogue.” Warble made a face at her. “Must you + go, Mrs. Boddy?” she rose. “I won't ask you to come again, as I know how + you love your own home and fireside. Goodby.” + </p> + <p> + Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out + of the front door and slammed it after her. + </p> + <p> + “That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul,” she said, as she + went down to see the cook about the sausage. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her + party should be a success. + </p> + <p> + In the morning she interviewed the cook. + </p> + <p> + “You can spread yourself on the feast, François,” she said, “have any old + menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But especially I + want you to make for me one hundred custard pies.” + </p> + <p> + The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his + duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish. + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a crême paté?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard pie—see? + <i>Pie</i>! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! Get + out of my way, I'll make them myself!” + </p> + <p> + Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job + and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she + herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust. + </p> + <p> + Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen + custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows. + </p> + <p> + “Not to be served with the supper,” Warble warned the butler, “when I want + them brought in I'll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Beer dressed Warble for the party, Petticoat standing by and advising. + </p> + <p> + The gown was a few wisps of henna-colored chiffon which fitfully blew, + half concealed, half disclosed a scant slip of jade green satin. + </p> + <p> + Flesh-colored stockings, Petticoat decreed, and henna slippers with carved + jade buckles. + </p> + <p> + “Now, her hair—” he mused, leaning on his folded arms over the back + of a chair. + </p> + <p> + He walked slowly round Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wopse it up anyway,” he said, “and tangle some jade beads in it. + She'll stand that.” + </p> + <p> + His orders were carried out and Beer clasped her hands in silent ecstasy + at the result of the combined efforts of herself and her master. + </p> + <p> + “Some day, Warble,” Bill said, “I'll teach you how to dress becomingly.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'll teach you how to undress becomingly,” said Beer, not wanting to + be outclassed in her own game. + </p> + <p> + Warble waved Petticoat out of the room, dismissed Beer with a simple “Get + out!” and then quickly flung off the clothes she wore and hopped into a + little frock of white organdie and cherries. + </p> + <p> + She wadded some hair over each ear, piled up the rest in a moppy coil and + crowned it with a wreath of cherries. + </p> + <p> + The party came. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” Warble thought, as she looked at the smart, bored crowd, + “have I got to bring these hifalutin creatures down to earth? I don't know + that I can make them laugh, but I'll give them a jolt!” + </p> + <p> + She did. + </p> + <p> + Her cherries bobbing, two long-stemmed ones held between her teeth, she + flew around like a hen with its head off. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” she explained, “it's a Mack Sennett party, everybody puts + things down everybody's back. Like this—and here are the things.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>would</i> dress as he pleased. + </p> + <p> + 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. They had to put them down the backs of the men + only, because the fashionably dressed ladies hadn't any backs to put them + down. You can't put an oyster down two crossed strings of pearls. + </p> + <p> + It caused great hilarity to see the Reverend Goodman standing on his head, + trying to lose a red-hot silver dollar; and Daisy Snow, whose débutante + frock was available for the purpose, wriggled beneath the tickling + crawling of a large but harmless spider. + </p> + <p> + Warble was almost in hysterics over the funny antics of Goldwin + Leathersham down whose loose and ample collar she had herself poured a + glass of water on two seidlitz powders. + </p> + <p> + “Next,” she cried, clapping her hands, “we'll have an artistic game. Here + it comes.” + </p> + <p> + Lackeys and minions brought in pails of kalsomine, of various tints, some + of pale pastel shades, others of deep rich hues. One was given to each + guest, and each was provided with a beautiful new whitewash brush. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” Warble explained, her blue eyes dimpling with delight, “you each + make a splash on the wall—a big, hit-or-miss splash. Then we each + try to evolve a lovely picture by few bold strokes.” + </p> + <p> + This was great fun. + </p> + <p> + Manley Knight, with a mighty splash of color that landed on a Fragonard + panel, had quite a good start for a “Storm at Sea.” He worked it up with + fine technique and you would have been surprised at the result. + </p> + <p> + Iva Payne took a splash from several different pails thereby achieving a + Cubist landscape. It was entitled “High Tide off the Three-mile Limit,” + and was a startling success. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow, timid little dear, made but a tiny daub and worked it up + carefully. + </p> + <p> + “That,” she said, “is a miniature of Big Bill.” + </p> + <p> + All in all, it was gay sport, and even Mrs. Charity Givens took part, + though she protested she was no artist and couldn't even draw a straight + line. + </p> + <p> + The next performance was a contest between Adam Goodsport and Avery + Goodman. + </p> + <p> + Bets were made on the two contestants before the betters knew what the + scrap was to be. + </p> + <p> + “It's a character sketch,” Warble explained. “Mr. Goodsport tries to + blacken Mr. Goodman's character, while the Rector tries to whiten Mr. + Goodsport's character.” + </p> + <p> + Avery Goodman was then presented with a bag of flour and Adam Goodsport + was handed a bag of soot. + </p> + <p> + They went at it hand over fist, and in a few moments the blacking and + whiting process was so complete that both were pronounced perfect + transformations and all bets were off. + </p> + <p> + Faces, hands and clothes were alike befloured and besooted, until Goodman + was a veritable Blackamoor while Adam Goodsport looked like a Marcelline. + </p> + <p> + A few eyebrows indicated a suspicion that Big Bill Petticoat's bride was a + Little Mischief, but nobody said anything about it. + </p> + <p> + “If I can only reform them,” Warble thought to herself, “if I can only + make them like and enjoy this innocent fun instead of wearing their poor + brains out over capitalled Art and Literature.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” she said, briskly, “we're going to play a game I learned in + Shanghai. All take off your shoes and stockings. No one excused—come + on—off with them.” + </p> + <p> + Beer and a few other maids came in to assist the ladies, the men were + properly valeted, and the barefooted crowd sat waiting further orders. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow made a remark about being a maiden with reluctant feet, but + nobody noticed it. + </p> + <p> + Several seemed rather relieved than otherwise at the condition imposed + upon them. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Warble, but before she could go further, Adam Goodsport butted + in with: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat—oh, please! Such an opportunity! May + never occur again! Oh, can't I—may I not—oh, dear lady, do say + yes—” + </p> + <p> + “Lordy, what do you want to do? Speak out, man!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, I am a solist—like a palmist you know—but as to + feet. I studied solistry in Asia Minor and I know it from the ground up. + Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat, let me read your sole!” + </p> + <p> + “Do,” cried Warble, “love to have you.” + </p> + <p> + She plumped herself into a pillowed divan, and held her little pink feet + straight out in front of her. + </p> + <p> + Goodsport, sitting on a cushion at her feet, took one and scrutinized the + sole. + </p> + <p> + “The Solar system,” he began, “is interesting in the extreme. It was + invented by Solon, though Platoe also theorized on the immortality of the + sole. His ideas, however have been discarded by modern footmen. + </p> + <p> + “Locke, is his treatise On the Human Understanding, discusses the subject + fully and with many footnotes, and old Samuel Foote himself cast + footlights on the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, looky here,” Warble objected, “I won't have a lecture in my house! I + object to anything of an intellectural nature.” + </p> + <p> + “This has nothing to do with the intellect,” Adam assured her. “Quite the + reverse, now, you listen. It's really interesting. The palmist may claim + to read the true character from the lines of the hand, but it is only by + solistry that the real sole is laid bare and the character of a subject in + any walk of life is exposed. The lines of the sole are greatly indicative + of character, for all traits must draw the line somewhere. Now, Mrs. + Petticoat, this line extending from the Mount of Trilby to the outer side + of the sole is the life line. If that appears to be broken it indicates + future death. If more pronounced on one sole than the other, it implies + that the subject has one foot in the grave. You haven't, don't be alarmed. + Here is the headline, straight and continuous, showing a long and level + head.” + </p> + <p> + “Ouch,” remarked Warble, “you tickle. Try somebody else,” and she drew her + feet under her. + </p> + <p> + “Me,” exclaimed Daisy Snow, coming over and holding out her dainty right + foot. + </p> + <p> + “H'm,” said Goodsport. “This line running from the Mount of Cinderella to + the heel is the clothes line and denotes love of dress. This line crossing + it is the fish line and shows you are incapable of telling the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Daisy flounced away, mad, and Mrs. Charity Givens, with some trepidation, + offered her ample and generous foot for dissection. + </p> + <p> + “A thorough, broad understanding and a friendly footing toward all,” + declared the solist, “and no danger of misunderstanding. However, your + broken headline indicates pugnacity.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort!” she snapped at him, and waddled away. + </p> + <p> + Goldwin Leathersham, greatly interested, insisted on having his pedal + interpreted. + </p> + <p> + “Mount of Atalanta highly prominent,” said Goodsport, “that means you are + a runner, either for office or for pleasure. Here is a line meeting—that + indicates a railroad man. H'm. A well-developed football shows you have + been to college. You seem to be inclined to solemates—” + </p> + <p> + But Leathersham had taken to his heels. + </p> + <p> + “Please,” said Iva Payne, gracefully offering her long psychic foot for + perusal. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the poetic foot!” the soloist exclaimed. “There are two kinds of + poetic feet—the Iambic and the Trochaic. You have one of each. In + poetic feet the heels are often found in French forms. But poets are a + footloose class and are often found with lame and halting feet. You don't + seem to be a poet.” + </p> + <p> + “Never said I was,” retorted Iva, shortly, and Warble said, “Stop this + nonsense, it makes too much kicking. Now we're going to play the game I + learned in Buda Pesth.” + </p> + <p> + She led them to the picture gallery which had been prepared for the game + by having many sheets of fly-paper placed on the floor, sticky side up. + </p> + <p> + “It's Fly-paper Tag,” she said. + </p> + <p> + It <i>was</i> Fly-paper Tag—she was quite right. + </p> + <p> + “You're it!” screamed Mrs. Givens as she pushed the minister over onto a + sheet of fly-paper. + </p> + <p> + “It yourself,” shrieked Leathersham adroitly shoving a sheet where he saw + Mrs. Givens would light next. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Warble was certain she was a great reformer. + </p> + <p> + Yet would these reformed people stay reformed? + </p> + <p> + True, they were now in the spirit of her party, Mack Sennett himself + couldn't have asked a better interpretation of his own vital principles. + But had they come to realize that this after all was the real thing, the + true ideal? + </p> + <p> + Warble feared. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They were a stuck-up lot. The fly-paper had intrigued them all. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. Judge Drinkwater folded Daisy Snow's two little hands + together, then wrapped them tightly in fly-paper, and shook with laughter + to see her futile attempts to get free. + </p> + <p> + “Naughty man!” she cried, “to make poor little me so helpless!” With a + spring she flung her entangled hands over the Judge's head, and hung round + his neck like a pretty little millstone. + </p> + <p> + Warble relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired and very hungry. + </p> + <p> + But she was the stuff of which true reformers are made and Martin Luther + had nothing on her. + </p> + <p> + Then Beer came tripping in with a pile of varicolored garments which she + held up to view. + </p> + <p> + “These,” Warble announced, “are the real Mack Sennett costumes. They are + one-piece bathing suits, I got them from an importer of contraband goods. + You are to put them on in place of your clothes. And please forget that + you are Butterflies and turn into bathing beauties and champion swimmers.” + </p> + <p> + While they were shyly getting into the suits, she donned her own, a little + scalloped apron effect, with cross-strapped sandals, and a silk bandanna + knotted round her head. + </p> + <p> + She glanced about and saw Big Bill Petticoat beaming with proud glee at + his wife's social success, and looking lovely himself in a black satin + one-piece, with jet shoulder straps. + </p> + <p> + For a second Warble could see only Petticoat's pink cheeks and perfected + eyebrows. Then she shook off the spell and keyed up. + </p> + <p> + “We're going to have an obstacle race,” she announced, “all over the + house. You must follow me, wherever I go. I shall lead you a dance! And + then I shall come last to the lake in the front hall, and whoever is + nearest me there, will be rewarded.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + She turned away, sick at heart. + </p> + <p> + Why bother, her tortured soul cried out. Yet the irrepressible impulse of + reform egged her on and it was a perfectly good egg. + </p> + <p> + She flew past Petticoat, only pausing to shout, “Like it all, my tramp? + Yes, it <i>is</i> an expensive party.” + </p> + <p> + Then she led her followers a mad race. Sliding down banisters, squeezing + into dumb waiters; crawling under beds and out the other side; jumping in + and out again of bathtubs full of perfumed water. Out of windows, in at + scuttles. Through booby-traps of half-open doors, on the lintel of which + were perched pans full of live crabs or little boxes of mice. + </p> + <p> + On rushed the horde, Mrs. Givens panting from over exertion, Goldie + Leathersham limping because of a crab hanging to his great toe. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Wherefore Trymie's soft plop into the oily depths was of a ludicrous + nature. + </p> + <p> + Then the guests were allowed to resume their own clothes and supper was + announced. + </p> + <p> + Conversation turned to art matters, and Leathersham who was a collector of + many various rarities asked Petticoat how his new collection was + progressing. The collection was one of early American Pieplates. + </p> + <p> + “Doing well,” Big Bill answered. “I have just achieved a yellow earthen + John Adams, that is authentic and very rare. Except for my Barbara + Frietchie tin one, it is perhaps the gem of my collection.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” Leathersham exclaimed, interestedly, “may I see it?” Petticoat + summoned a lackey and two minions and sent them to his curio room to fetch + the plates. But they returned with the startling announcement that all the + pieplate collection had disappeared! + </p> + <p> + “Heavens and earth!” Petticoat cried. “Lock the doors, search the pockets! + Why, that collection is worth millions!” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” Warble inquired, seeing the hullaballoo. “Oh,” as she + was told, “I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and our + pieplates gave out.” + </p> + <p> + “Making a lot of pies?” Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold + Leathersharn murmured, “How quaint!” in a supercilious way. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” went on Warble, unperturbed. “Want to see 'em?” + </p> + <p> + They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the + pantry windows. + </p> + <p> + “Whoopee!” shouted Petticoat, “here's where I take the helm! Cut out the + rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest.” + </p> + <p> + It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with + this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their + terrible aestheticism at last? + </p> + <p> + Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over + the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. “Oh,” she cried, astounded. “I + wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just eating + what I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a dear,” Marigold Leathersham said to her. “I'm going to love you. + How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he does.” Warble stated. “At least, he says so.” + </p> + <p> + “He's a truthful man,” Marigold declared, “you'd know that just to look at + him. There's something in his face just now—” + </p> + <p> + “It's pie,” said Warble, “he's very fond of it.” + </p> + <p> + To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final + entertainment. + </p> + <p> + “Folks,” she said, “this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be + complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they chose + sides. + </p> + <p> + The party being thus divided, they bombarded each other with custard pies + after the manner of certain comedians, till there wasn't a round of + ammunition left. + </p> + <p> + Then Iva Payne said she felt sick and wanted to go home and of course just + for that they all had to go. + </p> + <p> + “The nicest party ever!” they chorused at parting. “So novel and <i>naïve</i>—so + quite entirely out of the ordinary.” + </p> + <p> + As the last pied guest disappeared she turned wearily to her Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, Warb,” he said, “you are sure one corker! You put 'em to + sleep all right! Now you've shown 'em how, you bet they won't go on having + their stupid highbrow intellectural old gatherings. Hop along to bed, + little tired Lollipop.” + </p> + <p> + His long lithe arms gathered her forcefully to him, and her irritation at + his strength was lost in her admiration of his grace and skill in + imparting affection. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + From <i>The Butterfly Centerpiece</i>: + </p> + <p> + The Mack Sennett party at the home of Dr. Bill Petticoat was a hundred per + cent success. Little Lady Petticoat is nobody's fool. She knows that a + lucky punch is her only chance. A short, swift hook, straight from the + shoulder. The pretty Warble is a perpetual promise of joy, yet she shows + symptoms of curvature of the soul—and it is, so far, a toss-up + whether she will have her passport <i>viséd</i> or be given the gate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The week after, the Leathershams gave a party. The gilt-chaired audience + listened to Sable Caviaro the new Russian violinist and Slubber D. + Gullion, who discoursed on the Current Trend of Current Bolshe Vikings. + </p> + <p> + The refreshing episode consisted of champagne and Saratoga chips. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + The Restless Sexteen was the record altitude of Butterfly Center. It was + the elect and select of the intellect; it was the whole show—the + very Wholly of Whollies. To belong to it was canonization. Though some of + its members also belonged to the Toddletopsis Club, it meant their leading + a double life. + </p> + <p> + The Restless Sexteen were mostly young married women with their husbands + as nonresident members. + </p> + <p> + They studied higher psychology and broader psychopathy. The wrestled with + and threw Einstein and let themselves dream again with Freud. + Psychoanalysis was their washpot, and over the fourth dimension did they + cast their shoes. + </p> + <p> + Their afternoon digest was held at Faith Loveman's and Warble went. + </p> + <p> + The Loveman home was an abstract bungalow, which showed rather plainly the + iron hand in the velvet glove influence of the Japanese. + </p> + <p> + The large light hall had a built-in abstract table, and on this was an + enormous bronze plaque which held a thin layer of water on which rested + one pansy. + </p> + <p> + Faith's devotion to the Doctrine of Elimination allowed nothing else in + the hall, but in the living room there were three whole pieces of + furniture besides, of course, the caterer's gilt chairs brought in to hold + the restless sex as they tried to rest from their restlessness. + </p> + <p> + Faith Loveman looked curiously at Warble. + </p> + <p> + “You can't be very restless,” she observed, “you'd be thinner.” + </p> + <p> + Warble smiled engagingly. + </p> + <p> + “I do want to be thinner,” she conciliated, “how can I?” + </p> + <p> + And, somehow, that started them all off. They restlessly gave advice, + recommended certain exercises, uncertain drugs and most unattractive + diets. + </p> + <p> + They told their own experiences, extolled or berated their masseuses, + scribbled addresses of corsetieres for one another, and in their interest + and restless excitement they forgot all about Warble and she wanted to go + home. + </p> + <p> + But she had her mission to perform, and she waited until they restlessly + changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than + the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin + Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she + understand. + </p> + <p> + “Are you of the cognoscenti?” asked Faith Loveman of Warble. “I know all + about art but I don't know what I like,” she returned, blushing prettily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to + find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in + our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the + pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble that + breaks. We need an outlet—a vent—you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” said Warble, “your soul pressure is too high.” + </p> + <p> + “But we want it high—we love it high—we're restless—we're + keyed up, taut-strung, and hungry for soul food.” + </p> + <p> + “I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings.” + </p> + <p> + Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went home. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She reflected. + </p> + <p> + “It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I + knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems. A big one seems to be + how to get thin and how to stay so. They were all ready to drop the high + sign babble for that! But all women are. They took it up again. + </p> + <p> + “Can I reform them? Or shall I be sucked in, like Italians eat spaghetti, + and my personality absorbed by the Butterflies, till I forswear all I + stand for—all my utilitarian ideals shattered, all my prosaic hopes + dashed, all my common sense wrenched from me, and my poor little brain-pan + filled with the soul-mash of these high-strung sexaphones?” + </p> + <p> + She ignored Beer's offer to undress her, she ran upstairs to an + unfrequented bathroom, and flinging off her clothes, she got into the tub + and wept in terror, her body a round pink blob in the briny water. + </p> + <p> + But, thought the poor child, it's the most sensible place to cry. + </p> + <p> + When Petticoat came home she said: + </p> + <p> + “Honeybunch, let me in on your professional secrets. Tell me more about + your most interesting cases. It might make me restless.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing much to tell. Life just one ptomaine after another. Cases all + alike except for the primal cause.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, tell me something. Where've you been just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Over to Iva's. She had 'em again. Ripe olives. Getting better. Where you + been?” + </p> + <p> + “To the Restless Sexteen Club.” + </p> + <p> + “Like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't get it. They talk about things that aren't there. But I think I + could make them see—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, cut it out, Warble. You'd dust books so hard, you'd dust off the gilt + edges. They're deep-sea thinkers, that bunch—let 'em alone. What'd + they talk about?” + </p> + <p> + “About a book called 'Painted Shawls' or something, and about + Thyco-Serapy, and about a play called 'The Housebroke Heart.' Take me to + see it, will you, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't like it. You'd prefer the movies.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Four days later, Daisy Snow called and gave Warble a jolt or two. + </p> + <p> + “Huh, sizing me up, are they?” Warble sniffed. “Looking at me through the + footle, distorted little microscope of their own silly scrubby little + souls! Pooh, they couldn't, one of them, make a decent puff paste!” + </p> + <p> + “But we can get cooks to do that. The Intelligentsia seek for the rare + essence of thought, for colored words and perfumed cadences—” + </p> + <p> + “There, there, Daisy, don't try me too far! What did Lotta Munn say about + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she didn't say much. Just that you're too stout and you haven't any + ideals and you don't know a picture from a hole in the wall, and she + thinks a man like Dr. Petticoat is wasted on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh, she used to like Bill herself, didn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “Does yet. She's poisoned nearly as often as Iva Payne is.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm; anybody else after Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Only May Young.” + </p> + <p> + “And you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, me! I'm just a débutante. I'm not after anybody yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is mine—and + I won't stand for any nonsense about that.” + </p> + <p> + “My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says you + haven't any.” + </p> + <p> + “She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?” + </p> + <p> + “They made fun of your party—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!” + </p> + <p> + “They thought those bathing suits were—er—rather bizarre—” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>didn't</i> get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. + And they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands + and knees. + </p> + <p> + It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, dead + these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a <i>chaise longue</i>, + absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more hair out of + each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely architectural + viewpoint. + </p> + <p> + “What's the trouble?” Warble asked, “broken down arches?” + </p> + <p> + “Nope, guess they're all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Bill,” and she crept into the hollow of his chest, “are folks + talking about me?” + </p> + <p> + “They sure are.” + </p> + <p> + “What do they say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well. And what about the girls? Are they jealous of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Sort of. Lotta says if you cut her out with Trymie Icanspoon, she'll + elope with me.” + </p> + <p> + “And will she?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I reach the ticket office first. Besides, I like Iva better.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill, don't you love me any more?” + </p> + <p> + “Course I do, Little Fudge Sundae. But a popular doctor has + responsibilities.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I don't mean to be unreasonable. But let's keep peace in the + family as long as it's convenient—see what I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Do you think I'd like my new pajims better trimmed with frilled + malines, or just decorated with a conventional pattern of gold soutache + braid?” + </p> + <p> + Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated <i>chaise longue</i> + made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing + gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through + “What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare,” wound his watch, put out his + Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and back, + and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on his heels. + </p> + <p> + But until he bawled, “Aren't you ever going to clear out?” she sat, + unmoving. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The stories + she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an “Oh, my dear, I + can't tell you <i>that</i> one—it's <i>too</i> awful!” + </p> + <p> + Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the + point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That Mrs. Charity Givens had heard she was a great heiress, and meant to + stick her for a new hospital. That Le Grand Paynter wanted to do her + portrait, life size and full width, and that the Reverend Avery Goodman + said she was very light on her feet for a fat woman. + </p> + <p> + The last made Warble mad and she made a face at Lotta and sent her home. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A rose-colored June day. Meringues of cloud floating on a sky of cerulean + custard. + </p> + <p> + She crawled out for a walk. It was ninety-eight in the shade, too hot to + run much. + </p> + <p> + She walked down Ptomaine Street, her nose shining, and pearly drops + chasing each other down her back like rain on a car window pane. + </p> + <p> + In her tucked white dimity and ankle-ties, her pink sunbonnet and her + tiny, frilled parasol, she was as much out of place in the aesthetic town + as whipped cream on a grapefruit. + </p> + <p> + She circled the outskirts of the town, and noted the massive and imposing + gateways to the great estates. She knew the grandeur inside, she had been + there. Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian steppes, and + in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an Egyptian temple + excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with difficulty and at + great expense had buried there. + </p> + <p> + She did not know what to do about it. + </p> + <p> + She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of their + homes. Yet she couldn't let it go on—this gigantic inutility, this + mammoth lack of practical, efficient management. + </p> + <p> + Why, the ground sunk in a sunken garden would raise crops enough to feed + an army—and Lord knew how soon they might be needed. + </p> + <p> + And then she happened to think that reform, like charity should begin at + home, and she decided to start in on Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + She did. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They were sitting in their home-like Tower of Jewels, and, a bit timidly, + Warble said, “Let's pote quoetry to each other.” + </p> + <p> + Poor child, nervousness or emotion always made her reverse her initial + letters. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Petticoat returned, good naturedly, “you begin.” + </p> + <p> + Just what Warble wanted! Fate was always good to her. + </p> + <p> + “I will, because I hope to reform your tastes, dear, and teach you to see + the beauty of simple beautiful poetry. Listen to this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Weep and the world weeps with you, + Laugh and you laugh alone—” + </pre> + <p> + “That'll do, Warb. Don't go too far. Now it's my turn. But, you know, + dear, quoting isn't everything. You must learn to dissect, to interpret, + and above all to trace the influences that swayed the poet. + </p> + <p> + “Now I'll read you a poem picked at random, and then I'll trace the + influences for you.” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat reached out a languid arm, picked up a current magazine and + read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'FULFILMENT + + 'Here, at your delicate bosom, let death + Come to me + Where night has made a warm Elysium, + Lulled by a soft, invisible sea. + + 'Now in the porches of your soul I stand + Where once I stood; + Fed and forgiven by a liberal hand, + My broken boyhood is renewed. + + 'You are my bread and honey, set among + A grove of spice; + An ever brimming cup; a lyric sung + After the thundering battle-cries. + + 'You are my well-loved earth, forever fresh, + Forever prodigal, forever fond, + As, from the sweet fulfilment of the flesh, + I reach beyond.'” + </pre> + <p> + Noting that Warble was still awake, Petticoat discoursed: + </p> + <p> + “In the first line, we note the influence of Swinburne. There could be no + better start out. The Swinburne collocation of delicate bosom and death is + both arrestive and interesting. The third and fourth lines denote the + influence of Poe. To be sure, 'a warm Elysium' sounds like a new and + appetizing soft drink, but that is not what is meant; and the sea is + indubitably the one that sounded around the tomb of Miss Annabel Lee. + </p> + <p> + “The second stanza opens under pure Tennysonian influences. This may not + be clear at first to the beginner in influence tracing, but it is + unmistakably so to the expert. The recurring sibilants, the sound without + sense, the fine architectural imagery, all point to the great Lady Alfred. + The latter half of this stanza is due entirely to the strong influence of + D. W. Griffith. The poem was, without doubt, written after the poet had + been to see 'Broken Blossoms,' and the liberal hand from which that + production was flung to a waiting world left its ineffaceable + finger-prints on his polished mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now we come to stanza three. The first line shows the influence of Mother + Goose; the second is an unconscious echo of Solomon's Song; the + ever-brimming cup owes itself to Omar; and the rest of the stanza to + Rupert Brooke. + </p> + <p> + “Thus we see the importance of widespread reading, and a catholicity of + influences. + </p> + <p> + “Influence is wonderful! To invent a new simile, it is like a pebble + dropped into a placid lake; the ripples form ever-widening circles, and + the influence of an influence is never wholly lost. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—and this is quite as it should be—the final stanza is + the finest of all. It starts out under the influences of Walt Whitman. Had + Walt been omitted, the whole structure would have tumbled to the ground! + No self-respecting poet now-a-days writes without being influenced by + Whitman. It isn't done. It would be as indiscreet as to appear in one's + shirt-sleeves. The influence of the good, gray Poet <i>must</i> be felt, + must be <i>shown</i>, or the budding bard is out of the running. Only a + dash of Whitman is needed—'my well-loved earth' and 'prodigal' are + quite sufficient. + </p> + <p> + “'The sweet fulfilment of the flesh' is a final roundup that gracefully + blends Whitman's and Ella Wheeler Wilcox's influential powers—and, + incidentally, justifies the magnificent title of the poem. + </p> + <p> + “Then, as a crowning triumph, note the splendid last line, a masterpiece + brought about by the influence of Sir Oliver Lodge and his spiritistic + ilk! Could anything be finer? What imagery for a last line! What a + break-off, leaving the gasping reader in a state of choking suspense, of + avid, ungratified curiosity! A great poem indeed, and influenced by a + noble army of writers. + </p> + <p> + “Nor is the manner of the thing all that matters. The theme—the + great idea of the whole affair—is a marvelous example of influence. + The New York State Legislature recently passed a bill making attempted + suicide no longer a punishable offense. If successful, it is, like virtue, + its own reward. Indeed, it has to be, for as the Penal Code distinctly + states, owing to the impossibility of reaching the successful perpetrator + no forfeiture is imposed. But the new law lifts the ban from futile + efforts in the matter of self-destruction, and one need not pay the + hitherto exacted fine of a thousand dollars by way of a luxury tax on such + diversion. + </p> + <p> + “Can it be doubted, then, that our Poet read of this new law, and—it + may be unconsciously—was so influenced by it that he devoted sixteen + lines of his precious verse to the expression of his willingness to let + death come to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't blame him for being willing, and I wouldn't put a straw in + Death's way,” said Warble, earnestly. “I'm glad you read me that, Bill, + for that is just the sort of thing I mean to eradicate from your system. + It's like a disease, this aestheticism of yours—it's the Culture + Ptomaine.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, hold on, Dumpling Dear, do you know a culture from a ptomaine?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mean the cultures you take, I mean Culture with a big C. It's + a poison, and as you cure ptomaine poisoning, I'm going to cure this town + of its deadly art poisoning. I'm in revolt.” + </p> + <p> + “That's right, everybody who is anybody is in revolt against something + nowadays, because our knowledge of the truth is too great for our existing + conditions, and it bursts—” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Like poor Betsy Binn, who was so very pure within, + She burst this outer shell of sin, + And hatched herself a cherubim!” + </pre> + <p> + Warble interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I'm too fat?” Warble again interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “I do, my dear. You weren't, I think you are, I know you will be.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you love me more if I were—didn't weigh so much?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in exact inverse ratio.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Warble was a determined little person, and, too, fate often gave her a + good boost, and she thought one was about due. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's. + </p> + <p> + Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the + moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called + Seven Hills. + </p> + <p> + Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of Constantine + and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the entrance + patio. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Pot Pie,” screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, “come on in, the + firewater's fine.” + </p> + <p> + It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged + Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as + they spun the Toddletops. + </p> + <p> + Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others kindly + instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some other + devices of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name. + </p> + <p> + Also, there were tables, where those who chose played high-staked bridge, + poker or rum. + </p> + <p> + Warble wasn't a born gambler. Games of chance had no appeal for her. She + wanted to make faces at everybody and run away. But she scolded herself + for being too superior and forced herself to stay with the bunch. + </p> + <p> + In a way, she was rewarded, for she won all the money from the others. Her + luck was monumental. 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She was a proud and stuck-up chit all the evening. + </p> + <p> + Trymie Icanspoon called and flirted something fierce. But it didn't mean a + thing to Warble, for the man was so saturated with art that it oozed forth + in his conversation and she had no idea what he was driving at. + </p> + <p> + He went home thinking she was the most deliciously tempting morsel he had + ever seen and the biggest fool. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “No, I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, as a gift-book, but + he's no man. Could I kiss him? Not with a real movie kiss. + </p> + <p> + “They say marriage is a lottery. I haven't drawn much. I mean in the + matter of love. I wish I had a Prince Charming. Bill would do, all right, + but he thinks I'm too fat. I wish I could get thinner—all of them + are. Lotta's like a golf club and Daisy's like a breadstick. + </p> + <p> + “I s'pose they were born that way. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder when we'll begin to keep a family. + </p> + <p> + “I'm crazy about Bill—I am—I am— + </p> + <p> + “Am I? + </p> + <p> + “All the girls are, too. + </p> + <p> + “Does he care for them? For any of them? For all of them? + </p> + <p> + “For that detestable Daisy? That disgusting Iva? That rotten Lotta! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I may as well admit it—I just adore Bill! + </p> + <p> + “This frock is too tight—I must have it stretched. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm mad over my husband—but—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She sought Petticoat in his rooms. + </p> + <p> + She tumbled into his lap, and he pushed her out until he could set aside + the Angora cat and the Airedale and his pet guinea pig, then he said + politely, “Is this your seat?” and she perched on his knee. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love me, dear?” she asked, her voice full of a dumb pathos. + </p> + <p> + “Ooooooooooooooooooo! I'm sleepy,” he said, with a cavernous yawn and a + Herculean stretch that threw her out on the floor. “Want any money?” She + looked at him. He was not unlike John Barrymore in The Jest, and Warble + fell for him afresh. + </p> + <p> + “You are so beautiful—” she wailed. “I wish you loved me—” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I did,” he returned, honestly, “but you are such a butter-ball.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Butterfly Thenter calls anybody Butter-ball who weights over + ninety-five! If you're so cut up about it I won't live under this roof + another minute! I can earn my own living, and all I want, too! You can get + a divorce and marry some thread of a woman who has ptomaines all the + time!” + </p> + <p> + “Pish, tush, Warb, don't be a damfool! Lay off the melodrama. I do love + you—at least, I love ninety-five pounds of you. Now, will you be + good?” + </p> + <p> + “Yeth.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you try to think of me as a devoted and loving husband, even if + I'm not one?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear, I am unjust to you! I will take what you give me—what + you can spare from the little dog and the cat and the guinea pig. And I + will be your own little Petty Warblecoat. And I won't give you over to Iva + Payne—I hate her!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + The mail. + </h3> + <p> + The Petticoats rarely received mail. It wasn't done much in Butterfly + Center. So unaesthetic. + </p> + <p> + On a tray, a lacquered lackey brought a letter to Warble. + </p> + <p> + A white letter. Large and square—ominously square. + </p> + <p> + Warble took tray and all and went with it to Petticoat's rooms—the + letter was addressed to him. + </p> + <p> + She tapped but there was no answer. Listening at the door, she could hear + him splashing in his rock-hewn bath and leaping, chamois-like, from crag + to crag of his quarried bathroom. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on the floor and waited. Petticoat's toilets were like linked + sweetness, long drawn out. + </p> + <p> + It was late afternon, before he emerged, fresh, roseate and smiling, and + imprinted a kiss on Warble's cheek that left the red stamp of a + lip-sticked mouth. Warble sometimes thought if it could be arranged as a + dating stamp, she could keep a record of when he had last kissed her. + </p> + <p> + Poor little Warble—she loved her Big Bill so fondly, and he only + looked on her as something fatter than his dog, a little bigger than his + cat. Timidly she proffered the trayed letter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my Heavens!” and Petticoat smote himself, hip and thigh. “Where did + you get this? Why was I not told sooner of its arrival? To me! And + postmarked Lake Skoodoow-abskoosis! Home of my ancestors! Woman! Why this + delay? <i>Why</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “It came this morning,” said Warble, apologetically, “but you were in your + bath, and the door was locked.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is a most important letter. Why didn't you slip it under the + door?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't,” said Warble, simply, “it was on a tray.” + </p> + <p> + “As I hoped—I mean, feared—” exclaimed Petticoat, tearing the + envelope from the sheet, “he is dead!” + </p> + <p> + It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope—she always slit + them neatly with a paper-knife—but she was thrilled by Petticoat's + excitement. + </p> + <p> + “A fortune!” he exclaimed. “My revered ancestor, the oldest of the + Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! Now + we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, too! Oh, + Warble, ain't we got fun!” + </p> + <p> + He danced about the room, in his blue burnous and red tarbush, looking + more like a howling dervish than a tempestuous Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice—and perhaps she could + reform that more easily than she could older people. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” she said, “and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns of shuffy + fliffon—I mean, fliffy shuffon, no—shiffy fluffon—oh, + pleathe—pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, but + Petticoat didn't notice her. + </p> + <p> + “I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard,” he mused, “he'll know. + The last man I sent to Spain for a casemented façade, brought home a + temple! But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run over + just now—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The baby was coming. + </p> + <p> + Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She + sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris + powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca + Delia Robbia and Fra Angelico. + </p> + <p> + Also a few influential Madonnas. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The Butterflies came in with advice. Marigold Leathersham was dubious + about the wisdom of the plan, but brought a pillow of antique rose point, + filled with ostrich plumes. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Holm Boddy rushed over with a copy of <i>Poems Every Expectant Mother + Ought to Know</i>, and Lotta Munn sent a card of diamond safety pins. + </p> + <p> + Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling + downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence + didn't amount to much. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of <i>How to Tell + Your Young</i>, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and + Faith Loveman sent her own marked copy of <i>Cooks that Have Helped Me</i>. + </p> + <p> + But Warble made a face at them all, and gave their books to the Salvation + Army and read the Diary of Maggot Somebody. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Another fate slather. + </p> + <p> + The baby was twins. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble—fate in big chunks—destiny + in cloudbursts. + </p> + <p> + Two little red Petticoats all at once to hang on the ancestral tree. + </p> + <p> + But Warble was not caught napping. In her efficient way, she had provided + two bassinets, two nurseries—in fact, she had really provided three + of everything, but the third wasn't needed, and she thriftily ordered it + put aside for the present and for the future. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Petticoat was enchanted. + </p> + <p> + He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by the + skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on his + offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them Guelph + and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran off at once + to put up their names at various select and inaccessible clubs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Petticoat had five hobbies. Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, + Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. + </p> + <p> + The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger days had + been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she flibbered + differently now. + </p> + <p> + She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. + wing, and permeated the household. + </p> + <p> + Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits. Bobbed hair. Smoked cigars. + </p> + <p> + About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty. + </p> + <p> + Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to spar + with him, being a bit off condition. + </p> + <p> + “I've no use for Bill,” she would say, “with his custard pie ideals, his + soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine <i>lingerie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir. + </p> + <p> + She looked at Warble appraisingly. + </p> + <p> + “You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a + blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. You + get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. What do + you think of me?” + </p> + <p> + Warble made a face at her. “Corking!” screamed Aunt Dressie, “you come + straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not adequately.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm. You love him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yeth!” + </p> + <p> + “All right—love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a + case of ptomaine poisoning—that'd help. But don't take the matter + too lightly. If you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him + go. + </p> + <p> + “I've just let mine go. You see we had a place—a sort of Vegetarian + and Free Love Community proposition, but it didn't work out so we sold + it.” + </p> + <p> + “And your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's on his own for a while. I'm deciding what to fly at next. I + always ask nephew Bill's advice so as to know what not to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgot to mention it,” said Petticoat, strolling in, “but a few people + are coming to-night to help me plan for my new Color Organ.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” asked Warble, gazing at Petticoat in azure-eyed adoration. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord, don't you know <i>anything</i>? Tell her, Aunt Dressie!” and + turning on his French heel, Petticoat walked delicately out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Treat him rough, Warble, you're an awful fool,” commented the older + woman. “Why, a Color Organ is that marvelous new invention that plays + color instead of sound.” + </p> + <p> + “Color—instead of—sound—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—now don't try to understand, for you can't possibly. Go and + play with the children.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't. Tell me more about this thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't. You can hear it to-night, when they all talk about it.” + </p> + <p> + “What use is it?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Dressie stared at her. “What use are you?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Warble's brain stopped beating. + </p> + <p> + Bump. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What use was she—she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! + What use? Grrrhhh! + </p> + <p> + She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the + dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! + </p> + <p> + “I don't care! I won't endure it! + </p> + <p> + “What's Aunt Dressie anyhow? A military blonde, with glazed chintz undies! + What's Marigold Leathersham? A smart party who wears a hat! + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use—” she groaned, “perpetual waste motion—and now + waste color! What to do—what to do! + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's only two alternatives. I must reform this toy town, or be + dragged down to their terrible depths myself! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But not Trymie Icanspoon! No, he makes me sick. I guess I'll eat + pickles.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + In the pantry she found the under scullery maid screaming with an earache. + </p> + <p> + “You poor child,” she said, sympathetically, “I'll run and get my husband + and he'll cure it.” + </p> + <p> + She flew back to the room where the eager group had their heads together + over the blue prints and wash drawing of the new color organ. Pushing in + between Iva and Lotta she seized Bill by the arm and said, “hurry up now—matter + of life or death—Polly, the maid—dying—urgent case—” + </p> + <p> + By that time they were down in the servant's pantry where Polly was + moaning and groaning and wailing like a banshee. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, my dear?” Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very pretty + girl. “Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts and—” + </p> + <p> + “That'll do for a beginning,” Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves + and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and + disinfectants. + </p> + <p> + “Can you do anything, Bill?” Warble asked anxiously, “it isn't ptomaines, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent + bit of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, it's more + than an earache! The bally ear has been stung—or something—anything + bite you, Polly?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, a wasp.” + </p> + <p> + “She says a wathp!” exclaimed Warble. “Oh, Bill, it may mean blood + poisoning!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's true—it is—the ear will have to come off. Guess + I'd better call in old Grandberry to operate—he's an ear specialist—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!” + </p> + <p> + Warble was dancing about in her excitement. “You can do it, Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Get her up on the pastry table—there—that's all + right. Now we'll take her blood pressure—here, Warb, you be taking + her temperature, and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of + instruments—and my X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll + fix you up.” Petticoat lighted a cigarette and sat down to take Polly's + pulse. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” he said to the men who brought the things he had sent for, + “scuttle back for my rubber gloves, and the chloroform outfit. Tell my man + and his helpers to come down—I may need them—and bring me a + clean handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + “Now for an X-ray,” he said, a little later, as he adjusted his portable + X-razor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's all done,” said Warble, “While you were taking her plood + bressure, I cut off her ear—” + </p> + <p> + “What with?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I had a boning knife and the sardine scissors. It's all right. And + I've fixed her hair lovely—in a big curly earmuff, so it will never + show at all. Be quiet for a day or so, Polly, and then you'll be all + right. The only trouble is, after this, orders will probably go in one ear + and out the other—” + </p> + <p> + “You're a hummer, Warble,” Petticoat said, as they went back up stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it had to be done quickly, you see. And it was out of your line, so + I duffed in. But one thing bothered me a little. You see, the fire was + out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a lot—something + might of blew up.” + </p> + <p> + “And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown up—” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <h3> + Porgie Sproggins. + </h3> + <p> + Cave man. Brute. + </p> + <p> + Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable + Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling. + </p> + <p> + Warble saw him first across the room at a picture exhibition in Manley + Knight's gallery. + </p> + <p> + His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear—and his + complexion was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy + grocers' shops. A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that + sort. He was a Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and + Tarzan. + </p> + <p> + Warble flew at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like me?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he growled, and she kissed his hand which was like a hand by Rodin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is he?” she asked of Trymie. + </p> + <p> + “A miniature painter,” Icanspoon replied, “and a wonder! He does portraits + that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the world agog.” + </p> + <p> + Warble drifted back to the attraction. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Do</i> like me,” she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from + the blue. + </p> + <p> + Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who could + resist her. + </p> + <p> + Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, + pressing them back as if he would tear her apart. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see your soul!” he demanded, and his great face came near to peer + down through her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ugh, merely blocked in,” and he flung her from him. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't block tin!” she retorted, angrily, “it's pure gold—as you + will find out!” + </p> + <p> + He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote + himself to Daisy Snow. + </p> + <p> + Bing! That was the way things came to Warble. + </p> + <p> + Fate, Kismet, Predestination—whatever it was, it came zip! boom! + hell-for-leather! + </p> + <p> + “It's not only his strength but his crudeness—like petroleum or + Egyptian art. + </p> + <p> + “He can control— + </p> + <p> + “Amazingly impertinent! + </p> + <p> + “He wasn't— + </p> + <p> + “But I wish he had been— + </p> + <p> + “He will be!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She went to see him—in his studio. + </p> + <p> + A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt gimcracks. + Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons. + </p> + <p> + “Get out,” he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his + niggling at a miniature. + </p> + <p> + Warble made a face at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do that again,” he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory. + </p> + <p> + A few tiny brushmarks. + </p> + <p> + A wonder picture of Warble—made face, and all. + </p> + <p> + “Pleathe—Pleathe—” she held out her hand, and he dropped the + miniature into it. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare.” + </p> + <p> + “Your name? Your silly first name—” + </p> + <p> + “It's a nickname.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Areopagitica.” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet—sweet—” cooed Warble, dimpling. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers—” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + “It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my life. But + to be a ragpicker—ah, there's something to strive for! A + rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a + galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines—whoa!—giddap, + there! oh—Warble, come with me!” + </p> + <p> + He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and running + around, faced him impishly. + </p> + <p> + “Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in the + rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?” + </p> + <p> + “No, better stay here—” he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a + deep purple bruise. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Better not stay here—better go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Goodby.” + </p> + <p> + He took her up—it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger—and + set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she + paused to look in at his door, greeted her: + </p> + <p> + “Had a good time?” + </p> + <p> + She could not answer. + </p> + <p> + He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his wringing + wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. + </p> + <p> + “Gooooo—oooo—oo—d night,” he said. + </p> + <p> + That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling smattering + with a brute beast. + </p> + <p> + “No, he is not! He has noble impulses—ragpicking—inspired! His + eyes were misty when he spoke of it— + </p> + <p> + “A way out of Butterfly Thenter! + </p> + <p> + “A ragpicker's cart— + </p> + <p> + “A way out—” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat held her up. + </p> + <p> + “You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins.” + </p> + <p> + “Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So she was fairly thrown at Porgie. + </p> + <p> + Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or + rubbers. + </p> + <p> + The night came unheralded. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons—over-ripe + sardines—and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a + stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, + where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black pool, + Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing her + position every ten seconds. + </p> + <p> + A giant lumbered in. + </p> + <p> + “Porgie!” + </p> + <p> + “Saw your husband speeding away—couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take + me upstairs—I want to see your shoe cabinet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your + dreams and ideals—your rags—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—rags—you do love me!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—but I love rags—sweet—so sweet—” + </p> + <p> + “You're a misfit here—as who isn't. All misfits, frauds—fakes—liars—” + </p> + <p> + “All?” Warble looked interested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you little simpleton. I know!” He growled angrily. “Shall I tell you—tell + you the truth about the Butterflies?” + </p> + <p> + “Pleathe—pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + “I will! You ought to know—you gullible little fool. Well, to start + with, Avery Goodman—in his true nature, he's a worldly, carnal man. + His religion is a cloak, a raincoat, a mere disguise. Mrs. Charity Givens, + now, she's no more truly charitable than I am! She's shrewd and stingy, + her lavish gifts to the poor are merely made for the sake of the praise + and eulogy heaped upon her by her admiring friends. Manley Knight, renowed + for his bravery in the war, is an arrant coward. His soul is a thing of + whining terror, his heroism but a mask. Oh, I know—I read these + people truly, when they sit to me—off guard and unconsciously + betraying themselves. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Holm Boddy! Pah! She's far from domestic! She yearns for the halls + of dazzling light, for gayety and even debauchery. Her devotion to home + and children is the blackest of lies! And Iva Payne! She's no invalid! + It's a pose to seem interesting and delicately fragile. You should see her + stuff when no one's looking! + </p> + <p> + “Judge Drinkwater is a secret drunkard. Lotta Munn is a pauper—an + adventuress, pretending to wealth she doesn't possess. Herman True and his + wife! Zounds, if you could hear those two quarrel! Yet they pose as lovers + yet, and folks fall for it!” + </p> + <p> + “May Young?” Warble asked, breathlessly. + </p> + <p> + “An old maid. Well preserved, but no chicken. And Daisy Snow! Angel-faced + débutante! Huh, she knows more than her mother ever dreamed of! You should + see her in my studio, at her sittings! Cocktails, cigarettes, snatches of + wild cabaret songs and dances—oh, Daisy Snow is a caution!” + </p> + <p> + “The Leathershams?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a profiteer—she—well, she was a cook—” + </p> + <p> + “Marigold! No!” + </p> + <p> + “Marigold, yes! You are a little numskull, you know. You can't see through + these people's masks.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I reform them?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! Stop! I can't stand any more! Pleathe go—pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “What're you going to do about that Tertium Quid you've annexed?” Aunt + Dressie inquired, casually. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” Warble uncertained. “He has wonderful ambitions and + aspirations. He wants to be a ragpicker—a real one.” + </p> + <p> + “Ambitions are queer things,” Aunt Dressie thoughtfuled. “Now, you + mightn't think it, but I want to be a steeple climber.” + </p> + <p> + “You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie—and you saw him first.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head. + </p> + <p> + Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the + rapids are below you! + </p> + <p> + Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First—all the + deadly virtues called her. + </p> + <p> + Did she heed? + </p> + <p> + As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie came. + </p> + <p> + Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the + moon-parlor. She wore a picture frock of <i>point d'esprit</i> and tiny + pink rosebuds, and little pink socks and sandals. + </p> + <p> + “Come out on the Carp Pond,” he muttered, picking her up and stuffing her + in his pocket. “Nobody will see us.” + </p> + <p> + He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three of + his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted + back. Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail of + his ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in. + </p> + <p> + “Think of it!” he boomed. “No fetters of fashion, no gyves of convention. + Free—free as air—free verse, free love, free lunch—ah, + goroo—goroo!” + </p> + <p> + “Goroo—” agreed Warble, “sweet—sweet—” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet yourself!” roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his + gorilla-like arms just as a ringing, musical, “Ship ahoy!” sounded on + their ears. + </p> + <p> + “Hello there, Warbie!” + </p> + <p> + She knew then it was Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + “Having a walk?” he inquired, casually. + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” she casualed back. + </p> + <p> + He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and + snatched Warble in beside himself. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go home,” he said, cheerfully. “Good night, Sproggins.” + </p> + <p> + He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and + twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather + touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Warb, what about the baboon?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? Pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + “Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing—a good old + Cotton-Petticoat—birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has + none of these—” + </p> + <p> + “But he loves me!” Warble wailed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, 'cause he can't get you. Go along with him, and then see where + you'll be! No, my Soufflée, you hear me! Can the Porgie and stick to your + own Big Bill—your own legit.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don't love me—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do—in my quaint married-man fashion. And—ahem—I + hate to mention it—but—” + </p> + <p> + “I know—and I <i>am</i> banting—and exercising, and rolling + downstairs and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we're married, and divorces are not the novelty they once were—so + let's stay put.” + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me, then—” + </p> + <p> + He brushed a butterfly kiss across her left eyebrow, and together they + strolled back into the house, and as he went up to bed, Warble went down + to the pantry to see about something. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + “I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter,” Warble sobbed, “I don't b-belong—and + I-m g-going away—” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Petticoat said, cheerfully, “how long'll you be gone?” + </p> + <p> + “It may be four yearth and it may be eleven—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done.” + </p> + <p> + “You d-don't underthtand—I'm going to find my plathe in the world—I + don't belong here.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Can I go 'long?” + </p> + <p> + “No; you stay here. I'm—oh, don't you thee—I'm leaving you!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's it?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have the girls to amuse you—” + </p> + <p> + “What girls?” + </p> + <p> + “Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young—” + </p> + <p> + “They're not girls—they're married women—” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the time—they're + pretty modern, you know. They have separate establishments, but they're + friendly, pally, and even a heap in love with each other.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it—” + </p> + <p> + “Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble—that is, if you care to + tell.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life—not a Butterfly + existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I + can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going—oh, + I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of + Butterfly Thenter!” + </p> + <p> + “Warble—haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? + The Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers—” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't that, Bill, dear—it's that—you don't love me very + much—” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden + curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump shoulder + to the other. + </p> + <p> + “Goodby, Warble,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited + measure—freedom! + </p> + <p> + Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen down on + the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and indomitable, + on her way. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Hoboken. + </p> + <p> + Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, + cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, cauldrons, + boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, jars, + labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, inflamed + oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position + was that of a pickle taster. + </p> + <p> + At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium + cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills. + </p> + <p> + A conscientious taster—faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing + speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well. + </p> + <p> + Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her. + </p> + <p> + Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of + Petticoats. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yet: A glorious soft summer afternoon. + </p> + <p> + Warble alone in a room with a big, forceful looking man. + </p> + <p> + The door is closed, and the gentle breeze scarce stirs the opaque white + curtains. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” he said, not unkindly, but the girl screamed. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon,” Petticoat said, nonchalantly, “sorry. Thought you were my + wife. Know where I can find her?” + </p> + <p> + A slim, fairy-like Warble turned to greet him. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat couldn't believe his eyes. That sylph, that thread, that wisp—his + Warble—his one time plump wife! + </p> + <p> + “Gee, you're great!” he cried, “I'm for you!” + </p> + <p> + She got leave from the factory for a couple of years, with privilege of + extension. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to impose on your kindness,” he said, “but I'd like to chase + around Hoboken and take in the sights, I've never been here before.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a Bairns' Restaurant,” said Warble, shyly, “we might go there.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They did. In a taxicab. He held her in his lap and told her the news. + </p> + <p> + He had had his own rooms done over. Mediaeval setting. Romanesque arches. + Stained-glass windows. Sculptured cloisters. Good work. + </p> + <p> + “How are the twins?” she asked, timidly. “Pleathe.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine. Miss you terribly—we all do. Butterfly Center mourns your + loss. Spring a come-back, won't you, Warble?” + </p> + <p> + “You want me?” + </p> + <p> + “More than anything in the world! I'm mad about you! You beauty! You + raving beauty! You'll be the talk of the world this winter. Gee, Warble, + how I can dress you, now you're thin! Won't Beer be astounded!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That's the way things came to Warble. + </p> + <p> + The only thing she wanted, her husband's love, now flung at her feet in + unstinted measure, pressed down and running over—love, slathers of + it—all for her! It was sweet—a pleasant change from pickles. + </p> + <p> + “How's everybody?” + </p> + <p> + “Here and there. Iva's gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven! Where'd she go?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno. Her husband took her off. Jealous of me.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm. And Daisy Snow?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone into the movies. She grew too heavy for society. May Young's in the + Old Ladies' Home.” + </p> + <p> + “And Lotta Munn?” + </p> + <p> + “Murdered by her husband. He had to kill her—she wouldn't support + him. The Leathershams are in the poorhouse, and Mrs. Charity Givens has + bought their place. Want to go on a second honeymoon? Round the world?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They went. One night, sitting on top of the Taj Mahal, 'neath the Blue + Moon of Persia, Warble cried, + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go back to Butterfly Thenter—or shall I not?” + </p> + <p> + “Spin a toddletop,” said Petticoat, taking one from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + She spun it and it came up pickle foundry. + </p> + <p> + So Warble said, “All right, dear, I'll go home with you whenever you're + ready,” and she kissed him slenderly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ptomaine Haul. + </p> + <p> + Two Petticoats arriving. A happy Warble sprang from the car and seemed + fairly to skim up the steps. She passed, unnoticing, the pantry door, and + flew up to her own rooms which had been done over to suit her new + slenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Beer,” she cried, “look at me!” + </p> + <p> + “Maddum!” cried the astounded Beer. “What done it?” + </p> + <p> + “Unrequited love and pickles. I can wear sport clothes now!” + </p> + <p> + “Maddum can wear anything or nothing!” declared Beer triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + That night, Warble, her hands behind her, wafted into Petticoat's room. + </p> + <p> + He sat on the edge of his bed, running lingerie ribbons in his underwear. + </p> + <p> + “I'll stay, always,” Warble said, sidling up to him. “And I'm happy. + But...” + </p> + <p> + “Look out! Don't let the cat get that bolt of ribbon to play with!” + </p> + <p> + She smoothed his pillows and patted his sheets, while Petticoat glanced at + her a little suspiciously, from under his gabled eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “But I don't say that Butterfly Center is worth the ground it's built on. + I don't admit that Ptomaine Street is as useful as a Hoboken alley. I + don't admit that Art is any good at all. I've fought like a tiger and I + didn't make a dent on the Butterflies—but, I <i>have</i> grown + thin!” “Sure, you bet you have!” said Petticoat, threading ribbon into his + gold bodkin. “Well, kiss me good night—here you—I see you! + Don't you put those caterpillars in my bed!” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + +***** This file should be named 8386-h.htm or 8386-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/3/8/8386/ + + +Text file produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ptomaine Street + +Author: Carolyn Wells + + +Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8386] +This file was first posted on July 5, 2003 +Last Updated: May 11, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +PTOMAINE STREET + +THE TALE OF WARBLE PETTICOAT + + +By Carolyn Wells + + +To Roberta Wolf Buehler My Beloved Friend + + + + +FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK + + A certain Poet once opined + That life is earnest, life is real; + But some are of a different mind, + And turn to hear the Cap-bells peal. + Oft in this Vale of Smiles I've found + Foolishness makes the world go round. + + Ecclesiastes, Solomon, + And lots of those who've passed before us, + Denounced all foolishness and fun, + Not so the gay and blithesome Horace; + And Shakespeare's Jaques, somewhat hotly, + Declared the only wear is Motley! + + We mortals, fools are said to be; + And doesn't this seem rather nice? + I learn, on good authority, + That Fools inhabit Paradise! + Honored by kings they've always been; + And--you know where Fools may rush in. + + And so, with confidence unshaken, + In Cap and Bells, I strike the trail. + I know just how, because I've taken + A Correspondence Course by mail. + I find the Foolish life's less trouble + Than Higher, Strenuous or Double. + Dear Reader, small the boon I ask,-- + Your gentle smile, to egg my wit on; + Lest people deem my earnest task + Not worth the paper it is writ on. + Well, at white paper's present worth, + That _would_ be rather high-priced mirth! + + I hope you think my lines are bright, + I hope you trow my jests are clever; + If you approve of what I write + Then you and I are friends forever. + But if you say my stuff is rotten, + You are forgiven and forgotten. + + Though, as the old hymn runs, I may not + Sing like the angels, speak like Paul; + Though on a golden lyre I play not, + As David played before King Saul; + Yet I consider this production + A gem of verbalesque construction. + + So, what your calling, or your bent, + If clergy or if laity, + Fall into line. I'll be content + And plume me on my gayety, + If of the human file and rank + I can make nine-tenths smile,--and thank. + + + + +PTOMAINE STREET + + + + +CHAPTER I + +On a Pittsburgh block, where three generations ago might have been heard +Indian war-whoops--yes, and the next generation wore hoops, too--a +girl child stood, in evident relief, far below the murky gray of the +Pittsburgh sky. + +She couldn't see an Indian, not even a cigar store one, and she wouldn't +have noticed him anyway, for she was shaking with laughter. + +A breeze, which had hurried across from New York for the purpose, blew +her hat off, but she recked not, and only tautened her hair ribbon with +an involuntary jerk just in time to prevent that going too. + +A girl on a Pittsburgh block; bibulous, plastic, young; drinking the air +in great gulps, as she would later drink life. + +It is Warble Mildew, expelled from Public School, and carolling with +laughter. + +She had only attended for four weeks and they had been altogether +wasted. In her class there were several better girls, many brighter, one +prettier, but none fatter. The schoolgirls marveled at the fatness of +her legs when, skirts well tucked up, they all waded in the brook. Every +cell of her body was plump and she had dimples in her wrists. + +And cheeks, like: + + A satin pincushion pink, + Before rude pins have touched it. + +Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice +and her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls--you +know, sort of ringolets. + +In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was +more dressed. + + * * * * * + +Expelled! + +That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on +in broad strokes--in great splashes--in slathers. + +Expelled! And she had scarce dared hope for such a thing. + + * * * * * + +To sound the humor of Warble. + +She hated school. Books, restraint, routine, scratching slate pencils, +gum under desks, smells--all the set up palette of the schoolroom was +not to her a happy vehicle of self-expression. + +Often, in hope of being sent home, she had let a rosy tongue-tip +protrude from screwed up red lips at teacher, but it had gone +unpunished. + +And now-- + +Now, rocking in triumphant, glorious mirth, her plump shoulders hunched +in very ecstasy, the child was on the peak! + +Expelled! Oh, gee! + +And all because she had put a caterpillar down Pearl Jane Tuttle's back. +One little, measly caterpillar. + +Pearl Jane had sat right in front of her. + +A loose neckband round a scrawny neck. + +And when Pearl Jane wiggled, a space of neck between two thin, tight +black pigtails--a consequent safe-deposit that was fairly crying out to +have something dropped down it. + +A caterpillar mooching along the schoolroom aisle--clearly sent by +Providence. + +Helpless in the grip of an irresistible subconscious complex, Warble +scoops up the caterpillar and in an instant has fed him into the gaping +maw at the back of that loose gingham neckband. + +Gr-r-r-r-rh! + + * * * * * + +That, then, is why Warble stood in such evident relief on the Pittsburgh +block. + +Expelled! The world was hers! + +It had always been hers, to be sure, but it was now getting bigger and +more hers every minute. + +The very first day she went to school, a little boy said to her: + +"Do you like me?" + +"No," said Warble. + +The little boy gave her all his candy and his red balloon. + +So you see, she had a way--and got away with it. + + * * * * * + +Warble was an orphan. She had a paprika-seasoned sister, married to a +chiropodist, in Oshkosh. But for all that, she planned to earn her own +living. + +And she had an ambition. At present beyond her grasp, yet so sure +was she of its ultimate attainment, that she shaped her entire cosmic +consciousness toward that end. Her ambition was not unique, perhaps +not unattainable. It had been achieved by others with seemingly little +effort and less skill; and though as yet, merely a radiant hope, Warble +was determined that some day she would gain her goal. + +Her ambition was to get married. Her sister had; her mother had; she +politely assumed her grandmother had. + +She would. + +Often she imagined herself the heroine of delightful scenes she watched +at the cinema. She loved the slow unwinding of the story on the screen, +but when engaged with her imagination she hurried it on in haste to +reach the final close-up. + + * * * * * + +It was at no one's advice, but because of her own inner yearnings that +Warble took a job as waitress in a Bairns' Restaurant. + +She reveled in the white tiles, the white gloss paint, the eternal +clearing-up and the clatter of flatware. She loved the flatware--it +always made her think of a wedding--sometimes of her own. + +She adored the white-capped King Alfred baking his cakes in the window, +but merely as a fixture, as she adored the mute stacks of clean plates +and the piles of pathetic little serviettes. + +In a more intimate and personal way she adored the pork and beans, the +ham and eggs, the corned beef and cabbage, and--importantly--the gentle, +easy-going puddings and cup custards. These things delighted her soul +and dimpled her body. + +She was proud of her fellow-waitresses, proud of their aspirations (the +same as her own). + +Having exceptional opportunity, Warble learned much of culinary art +and architecture, at least she became grounded in elementary alimentary +science. + +She had little notebooks filled with rules for Parisian pastry, Hindu +recipes for curry; foreign dishes with modern American improvements. + +Joyously she learned to make custard pie. This, as the tumultous future +proved, was indicative. + +Only the little smiling gods of circumstance, wickedly winking at one +another, knew that when Warble whipped cream and beat eggs, she laid +the corner stone of a waiting Destiny, known as yet but to the blinking +stars above the murky Pittsburgh sky. + +She was extravagant as to shoes and diet; and, on the whole, she felt +that she was living. + +She was not mistaken. + +She went to dances, but though sometimes she toddled a bit, mostly she +sat out or tucked in. + +During her three years as a waitress several customers looked at her +with interest though without much principle. + +The president of a well-known bank, the proprietor of a folding-bed +concern, a retired plumber, a Divinity student and a ticket-chopper. + +None of these made her bat an eyelash. + +For months no male came up for air. Then, the restaurant door swung back +on its noiseless check and spring, and in walked Big Bill Petticoat. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Petticoats were one of the oldest and pride-fullest of New England +families. So that settles the status of the Petticoats. A couple of them +came over in the _Mayflower_, with the highboys and cradles and things, +and they founded the branch of Connecticut Petticoats--than which, of +course, there is nothing more so. + +Of course, the Petticoats were not in the very upper circles of society, +not in the Dress Circle, so to speak, but they formed a very necessary +foundation, they stood for propriety and decency, and the Petticoats +were stiff enough to stand alone. + +Another fine old New England family, the Cottons. + +Intermarriage linked the two, and the Cotton-Petticoats crowded all +other ancient and honorable names off the map of Connecticut and nodded +condescendingly to the Saltonwells and Hallistalls. Abbotts and Cabots +tried to patronize them, but the plain unruffled Cotton-Petticoats held +their peace and their position. + +The present scion, Dr. Petticoat, was called Big Bill, not because of +his name or stature, but because of the size of his bills. He presented +them quarterly, and though his medicine was optional--the patient could +take it or leave it--the bills had to be paid. + +Wherefore Dr. Petticoat was at the head of his profession financially. +Also by reputation and achievement, for he had the big idea. + +He was a specialist, and, better yet, a specialist in Ptomaine +Poisoning. + +Rigidly did he adhere to his chosen line, never swerving to right or +left. People might die on one side of him from water on the brain and on +the other side from water on the palate, not a prescription could they +get out of Big Bill Petticoat unless they could put up unmistakable +symptoms of ptomaine poisoning. + +And he was famous. People brought their ptomaines to him from the +far places, his patients included the idlest rich, the bloatedest +aristocrats, the most profitable of the profiteers. His Big Bill system +worked well, and he was rich beyond the most Freudian dreams of avarice. + +As to appearance, Petticoat was very pretty, with that fresh rosy +beauty that is so attractive. His walnut hair was fine and silky, but +a permanent wave made it fuzz forth in a bushy crinkle that was +distractingly lovely. His tweezed eyebrows were arched to a perfect span +and his finger nails showed a piano polish. + +His features were cold-chiseled and his coloring was exquisite. In fact, +his coloring was too good to be true, and no wonder, for it came out of +a very modern and up-to-date six-cylinder makeup box. + +His lips looked as if they were used to giving orders in restaurants, +and he wore clothes which you could never quite forget. + +Warble edged toward the stranger, and murmured nothing in particular, +but somehow he drifted into the last and only vacant seat at her table. + +She whisked him a 2 x 2 napkin, dumped a clatter of flatware at him, and +stood, awaiting his order. + +The pause becoming lengthy, she murmured with her engaging smile, +"Whatcha want to eat?" + +"Pleased to eat you," he responded, looking at her as though she was an +agreeable discovery. + +Small wonder, for Warble was so peachy and creamy, so sweet and +delectable that she was a far more appetizing sight than most viands +are. She smiled again--engagingly this time, too. + +Thus in the Painted Vale of Huneker, Vamp and Victim beguiled the hours. +Thus, and not in treacled cadences, intrigued Mariar and Sir Thomas in +the back alley. + +"Do you like it here?" asked the doctor. + +"Yop. But sometimes I feel wasted--" + +"You don't look wasted--" + +"No--" after a hasty glance in the wall mirror. + +"Don't you get sick of the sight of food?" + +"Here, oh, no! I don't know any lovelier sight than our kitchens--yes, +yes, sir, I'll get your pied frotatoes at oneth." + +When Warble was a bit frustrated or embarrassed, she often inverted her +initials and lisped. It was one of her ways. + +The other clients at her table had no intention of being neglected while +their Pickfordian waitress smiled engagingly on a newcomer. + +It was the iceman who had hollered. He seemed to be merely a red-faced +inanimate object, that worked by strange and compound levers. + +Next him was a hat-check girl, a queenly person who communed with +something set in the lid of her vanity case, and fed on chicken a la +king. + +Then there was a newsboy, whose all-observant eyes darted about +everywhere, the while he absorbed baked beans and ketchup. + +An old maid shopper. She merely brooded over her worn and pencil-scored +memorandum, and muttered of fringe and buttons as she spilled tea on her +samples of Navy blue foulard. + +A blind man. Of no interest save that he had a calm and gentle demeanor +and was the only one who didn't spill things. His face wore a grieved +but resigned look, as if something had died in his scrambled eggs. The +iceman, who had the hard, set jaw of a prize fighter was successfully +eating steak, and he welcomed the incoming fried potatoes, as one greets +a new instalment of a serial. + +It was a fat and pink and lovely Warble who at last trotted back with +Petticoat's order. + +The great specialist had an unbridled passion for pie, and throwing +restraint to the winds he had ordered three kinds. The wedges +Warble brought were the very widest she could wheedle from the head +pie-cutter--and Warble was some wheedler, especially when she coaxed +prettily for a big pieth of cuthtard. + +Petticoat looked at her again as she came, pie-laden. + +Her cap was a bit askew, but her eyes weren't. In her white linen dress +and apron and white cap, her little pink face looked to Petticoat's +appraising glance like a postage stamp on an expanse of white linen +envelope. + +Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put +his foot in it. Yet he did. + +"May I see you again sometime?" he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's +ogling and the iceman's cold stare. + +Warble made a face at him. It was one of her ways. + +"What's your address?" he asked. "You can ask the Boss--if you really +want to know." + +"Want to know! Say, you waitress!" + +Of the love-making of Warble and Big Bill Petticoat there is nothing to +be reported which may not be read in any Satevepost serial, which may +not be heard at any summer resort, in any winter garden. They were +zoology and history. Their speech was free silver and their silence was +golden. + +It was a non-stop courtship. All the plump beauty of youth and all the +assured complacence of a well-to-do married man kept them up in the air. + +Petticoat wasn't a married man, but he had their technique. + +They took a walk, and followed a roundabout way. Then they sat on a +bank, and his arm followed a roundabout way. + +She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin +frock and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink +roses, and roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture. + +Petticoat was charmed. + +"Golly, but I love you, Warble!" he cried. + +She did not answer, but she touched the upper edge of the wallet in his +breast pocket with an exploring gesture. + +"You think I'm too darn aesthetic! Well, you're not, and so we ought to +mate. We're complementary to one another, like air and sunshine or light +and shade." + +"Or pork and beans, or pie and cheese." + +"Yes, or like stout and porter--I'll be the porter, oh--what's the use +of talking? Let my lips talk to you!" + +He kissed her cheek, imprinting thereon a Cupid's bow, by reason of his +own addiction to the lipstick. + +Warble rubbed it off with the back of her hand, and said, "Oh, +pleathe--pleathe." + +She wondered if she ought to have said thank you, but it was only a +drifting thought and she turned the other cheek. Then she smiled her +engaging smile and they were engaged. + +Later in the game, she said, with pretty diffidence, "I would like to +thee Butterfly Thenter." And she blushed like the inside of those pink +meat melons. + +"I knew it!" and Petticoat produced a pile of Sunday Picture +Supplements. + +Her cheek nested in his permanent wave, Warble studied the pictures. + +They were the last word in artistic architecture. Truly, Butterfly +Center, where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless +Town and Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching +trees, sublimated houses, glorified shops--it seemed to Warble like a +flitter-work Christmas card from the drug-store. + +"How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?" he +jollied her. + +"It might be--a lark--" she dubioused. + +"But here's the picture!" and proudly he exhibited a full length view of +his own home. + +"Ptomaine Haul," he exploited, proudly. "Built every inch of it from the +busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's +the sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now--he has a corking +chateau--French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens--she has a Georgian +shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most profitable +patients--sick all the time." + +Warble studied the pictures. + +"What expensive people," she said, "dear--so dear." + +"Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come +on, Warble, will you?" + +"Yop," she murmured, from his coat pocket, "Sweet, so sweet." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. +A soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz +awnings of the Butterfly Center station. + +A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit. + +From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening +spaces and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate. + +It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled. + +The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped, +rose-cheeked girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she +looked about. + +About what? + +About eighteen. + +They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble. + +They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous loving. + +It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how +hungry she could be even on a wedding trip. + +Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist and +a pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their home town. +People were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen them before. But +these were her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn--and, they +didn't seem to need it. + +They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that there +is no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris. + +But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station +were hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and +physically, literally butterflies. + +"Isn't there any way of waking them up?" she begged of Petticoat, +grabbing his arm and shaking him. + +"These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy." + +"But they're so smug--no, that isn't what I mean. They're so +stick-in-the-mud." + +"Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a +woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff +and mischief." + +"I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them." + +"Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all down +here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you behave +yourself." + +"Yop." + +She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with +them all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like +Coney Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls. + +She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, +embracing arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they +were taking her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame +her. + +"Oh, pleathe--pleathe," she lisped. + +In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled +white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink +calf, Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing, + + As soft as young, + As gay as soft, + +and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her. + +Not so the remainder of the citizens. + +One of the men was yelling at Petticoat: + +"Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours--I'll tote the bride-person +you've got there--with joy and gladness." Warble looked at the yeller. + +"Can't quite place me, chick, can you?" he grinned at her. "Well I'm +only old Goldwin Leathersham--no use for me in the world but to spend +money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing--step up here, +Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than she looks, Mrs. +Petticoat." + +"Indeed I'm not," Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, "I couldn't +be--nobody could be!" + +She came running--a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of +expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a +lavish smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away from +and through Warble, yet she saw her. + +"So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby," she chirruped. "You're going +to love us all, aren't you?" + +"Yop," said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile. + +"You bet she'll love us," declared Leathersham, "she'll make the +world go round! Hello, Little One," he turned to pat the cheek of a +white-haired, red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, stood +by, listening in. "This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs. +Charity Givens--noted for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads +all Donation Lists, and she's going to start a rest cure where your +husband's unsuccessful cases may die in peace. And here's one of the +cases. Hello, Iva Payne!" + +"Hello," languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily--a Burne-Jones +type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass window to rest +her head against. + +"Are you really Bill's wife?" she asked, a little disinterestedly, of +Warble. + +"Yop," said Warble, and made a face at her. + +"How quaint," said Iva. + +"Whoopee, Baby! Here we are," and Petticoat rescued his bride from the +middle of a crowd and yanked her toward his car. + +The car was a museum piece, and as Warble caromed into its cushions she +felt that her lines had fallen in pleasant places. + +That was the way Fate came to Warble. In big fat chunks, in slathers. +Unexpected, sudden, inescapable--that's Fate all over. + +"I shall like Mr. Leathersham--I shall call him Goldie. They're all +nice and friendly--the men. But this town! Oh, my Heavens! This Jewel +Casket--this Treasure Table! I can't live through it! This Floating +Island of a Tipsy Charlotte!" Her husband nudged her. "You look like you +had a pain," he said; "Scared? I don't expect you to fit in at first. +You have to get eased into things. It's different from Pittsburgh. But +you'll come to like it--love is so free here, and the smartest people on +earth." + +She winked at him. "I love you for your misunderstanding. I'm just +dog-tired. And too many chocolates. Give me a rest, dear. I'm all in +from wear sheeriness." + +She laid her feet in his lap and snuggled into the corner of the +pearl-colored upholstery. + +She was ready for her new home, beautiful, celebrated Ptomaine Haul. +Petticoat told her that his mother had been living with him, but had +fled incontinently on hearing a description of Warble. + +The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a +corner and stopped under the _porte cochere_ of a great house set in the +midst of a landscape. + +Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves. + +A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great +porch, and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield. + +A great hall--at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the +right, a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride. + +"You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is--in case you +care to rebuild or redecorate." + +"It's a sweet home--" she was touched by his indifference. "So +artistic." + +Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, +carelessly, "Yes, home is where the art is," and let it go at that. + +In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and +magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller +skates. + +As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, +she quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth. + +She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had +realized her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the +final close-up. + +What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt, +and admire his rich and expensive clothing. + +"Dear--so dear--" she murmured. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"The Leathershams are giving a ball for us to-night," Petticoat said, +casually, as he powdered his nose in the recesses of his triplicate +mirror. + +"A ball?" + +"Oh, I don't mean a dance--I mean--er--well, what you'd call a sociable, +I suppose." + +"Oh, ain't we got fun!" + +"And, I say, Warble, I've got to chase a patient now; can you hike about +a bit by yourself?" + +"Course I can. Who's your patient?" + +"Avery Goodman--the rector of St. Judas' church. He will eat terrapin +made out of--you know what. And so, he's all tied up in knots with +ptomaine poisoning and I've got to straighten him out. It means a lot to +us, you know." + +"I know; skittle." + +Left alone, Warble proceeded systematically to examine the interior of +Ptomaine Haul. She gazed about her own bedroom and a small part of +its exquisite beauty dawned upon her. It was an exact copy of Marie +Antoinette's and the delicately carved furniture and pale blue +upholstery and hangings harmonized with the painted domed ceiling and +paneled walls. + +The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as +Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to the +embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole. + +The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets, such +as Warble had not smelled since before the war. + +"Can you beat it," she groaned. "How can I live with doodads like this?" +She saw the furniture as a circle of hungry restaurant customers ready +to eat her up. She kicked the dozen lace pillows off the head of the +bed. + +"No utility anywhere," she cried. "Everything futile, inutile, brutal! I +hate it! I hate it! Why did I ever--" + +And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled +Petticoat--not one of those that Oliver Herford so pathetically dubbed +"the short and simple flannels of the poor." + +Yes, she was now a Petticoat--one of the aristocratic Cotton-Petticoats, +washable, to be sure, but a dressy Frenchy Petticoat, and as such she +must take her place on the family clothesline. + +She drifted from oriel window to casement, and on to a great becurtained +and becushioned bay, and looked out on the outlook. + +She saw gardens like the Tuileries and Tuilerums, soft, shining pools, +little skittering fountains, marble Cupids and gay-tinted flowers. This +was the scene for her to look down upon and live up to. + +"I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon! Am I sick?... +Good Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! I'd hate it--I'd be scared +to death! Some day--but, please, kind Fate, not now! I don't want to go +down now with ptomaine poisoning! Not till after I've had my dinner! I'm +going out for a walk." + +When Warble had plodded along for six hours, she had pretty well done up +the town. + +Ptomaine Street, which took its name from her husband's own residence, +was a wide, leafy avenue with a double row of fine old trees on each +side. They were Lebbek trees, and the whole arrangement was patterned +after the avenue which Josephine built for Napoleon, out to the Mena +House. + +She passed the homes of the most respectable citizens. Often they were +set back from the road, and the box hedges or tall iron fences prevented +her from seeing the houses. But she saw enough and sped on to the more +interesting business and shopping section of Butterfly Center. + +She passed Ariel Inn, the hotel being like a Swiss Chalet, perched on +some convenient rocks that rose to a height above street level. A few +fairly nimble chamois were leaping over these rocks and Warble heard a +fairy-like chime of bells as afternoon tea was announced. + +A man in an artist's smock sauntered across the street. A palette on +one thumb, he scratched his chin with the other. A hearse, its long +box filled with somebody, crawled down the block. A dainty Sedan with a +woman's idle face at its window wafted by. From a Greek Temple came the +sound of Interpretative Dancing, and the applause of perfunctory hands. + +She wanted to elope. Her own ideas of utility, efficiency, and economy +were being shattered--broken in pieces like a potter's vessel. Her sense +of proportion, her instinct for relative values, her abhorrence of waste +motion, her inborn system and method, all were swept away as a thief in +the night. Could she reform this giddy whirl? Could she bring chaos out +of cosmos? Was her own ego sufficient to egg her on in her chosen work? + +She haed her doots. + +She maundered down the street on one side--back on the other. + +Dudie's Drug-store was like unto a Turkish Mosque. Minaret and pinnaret, +battlement and shuttle-door, it was a perfect drug-store, nobly planned. +The long flight of steps leading up to its ptortal was a masterpiece in +the step line. + +Inside, the Soda Pagoda was a joy of temple bells and soft, sweet +drinks, while at the prescription counter, the line formed on the right, +to get Dr. Petticoat's prescriptions filled for their ptomaines. + +A Moldavian Incense Shop was the barber's; a half-timbered house +sold English-built clothes; a brick affair of Georgian influences and +splendid lines, housed the hardware needed by the Butterflies, and the +milliner's was a replica of the pyramid of Cestus. + +The bank was the Vatican, with Swiss guards in the doorway. + +Perpetual waste motion! In all the town not one building that connoted +to Warble the apotheosis of efficiency shown by the King Alfred tossing +cakes in the window of Bairns' Restaurant. Not a dozen buildings that +even suggested use in addition to their beauty. + +And the street was cluttered with trees in tubs, window boxes, +sudden little fountains or statues; gilded wicker birdcages on tall +poles--songs issuing therefrom. + +Arbors, covered with pink Dorothy Perkinses, here and there by the +curbside. And, worst of all, people sitting idle in the arbors. Idle! + +She wouldn't have cared so much, if the people had been busy--even one +of them. She fought herself. "I must be wrong. It can't be as silly as +it looks! It can't!" + +She went home and found Petticoat waiting for her. + +"Like the burg, eh? Great stuff, what? Not an eyesore inside the city +wall. Good work, I'll megaphone." + +Warble sat down in an easy-going chair--so easy, it slid across the room +with her, and collided with a life-sized Chinese lady of yellow stone. + +"Yes," Warble responded, "it's very uninteresting." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +Goldwin Leathersham was a great Captain of Industry. In fact, he put the +dust in industry, or, at least, he took it out of it. He got it, anyway. + +His home was an Aladdin's Palace, with a slight influence of Solomon's +Temple. Gold was his keynote, and he was never off the key. + +When our Petticoats arrived at the party, they were met by gold-laced +footmen, who whisked them into shape and passed them along. + +Warble found herself in a white and gold salon, so vast, that she felt +like a goldfish out of water. The place looked as if Joseph Urban had +designed it after he had died and gone to Golconda. Whatever wasn't +white was gold, and the other way round. The gold piano had only white +keys, and the draperies were cloth of gold with bullion fringe. All +real, too--no rolled or plated stuff. + +A huge coat-of-arms in a gold frame announced that Mr. Leathersham was +descended from the Gold Digger Indians, a noble ancestry indeed; and it +was no secret that his wife had played in "The Gold-diggers," during its +second decade run. + +Marigold Leathersham was a charming hostess, and greeted Warble with a +shriek of welcome. "You duck," she cried; "how heavenly of you to dress +so well." + +Warble was simply attired in a white pussy-willow silk underslip. In her +haste and excitement she had forgotten to add the gown meant to go over +it, and as she wore no jewels save the chased gold lingerie clasps +at her shoulders, the result was a simplicity as charming as it was +unintentional. + +And so she made a hit. + +That was the way things came to Warble; a hit--a social success--and all +because she forgot to put on her frock. + +She mingled with the glittering throng of gilded youth, of golden lads +and girls, of gilt-edged married people, and found herself in the arms +of Goldwin Leathersham, her host. + +"Here comes the bride," he shouted, as he piloted her about and +introduced everybody to her. + +"This demure little beauty," he said, "is Daisy Snow. Note her sweet, +pure face and wide-eyed, innocent gaze." + +"It is all so new--so wonderful--" Miss Snow breathed, "I'm a debutante, +you know, and I have scarcely butterflied out of my chrysalis yet. How +splendid the Leathershams are. He has a heart of gold. Oh, he is such +a good man, he says his life motto is the Golden Rule." + +"And Mrs. Leathersham?" asked Warble. + +"Marigold? Oh, yes, she's as good as gold, too. We're firm friends." + +Warble was agog to mingle, so she moved on. + +Le Grand Paynter, a celebrated Cubic artist, fascinated her with his +flowing locks, flowing tie and marvelous flow of conversation. He asked +to paint her as a Semi-nude Descending a Ladder, but she only said she +must refer him to her Petticoat. + +Freeman Scattergood, the well-known philanthropist was chatting with +Mrs. Charity Givens, who was the champion Subscription List Header. Many +had tried to oust her from this enviable position but without success. +Near them stood Avery Goodman, the rector, and he was deeply engaged in +a flirtation with Miss May Young, one of his choir girls. + +Manley Knight, a returned soldier, was resplendent with a Croix de +Guerre, a Hot Cross Bun and many other Noughts and Crosses. + +Warble fingered them in her light way. + +"Isn't he splendid!" babbled Daisy Snow the _ingenue_; "Oh, how +wonderful to offer one's life for glory! You can fairly see the heroism +bubble out of his eyes!" + +"How you admire him!" said Warble. + +"Yes, but he doesn't care for me." + +"Not specially," admitted Manley Knight. "Yes," Daisy said. "He thinks +me too ignorant and unsophisticated--and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, +the heiress--she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to +Lotta. I think it will be a real love match--like the Trues." + +"The Trues?" asked Warble, politely. + +"Yes," and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart +from the rest, on a small divan. "They're wonderful! Herman True is the +most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his +wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And +they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what +a fate!" + +Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of +cold boiled ham. + +But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of +cocktails. + +Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a debutante so did Judge +Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a +Prohibitionist. + +A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked +Daisy who she might be. + +"Oh, that's Iva Payne--you met her, you know. She's very delicate, +a semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't +exactly know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to +the doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat--I believe she brings +her own specially prepared food to parties. + +"She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right," Warble commented. + +"I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her--she is not at +all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says." + +"Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?" + +"Oh no! I'm a debutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I +take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette." + +"Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a +thousand." + +This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the +matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her +mother permitted. + +Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some debutante +also, for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly +interested in the whole matter. + +She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded +toward the dining-room. But no such luck. + +Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the +crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, +facing a platform as large as a theater stage. + +An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous +applause. + +"Who is he?" Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery +Goodman, "an impersonator?" + +"Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist--rants on Fourth Avenue +dimensions, or something like that." + +In a tone of forceful mildness the speaker began: "It must be conceded +that, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all +insensate communication, that a psychic moment may or may not, in +accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, +become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a +trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, +no feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable +demand of endurance. + +"Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the +investiture of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in +accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, +to become warily regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof +of a smouldering discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a +trenchant humor, it may or may not be warily regarded. + +"Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to +psychic action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of +disregarded symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power +of doubt, considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our +argument as faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the +corollary reasoning must be that no premise is or may be capable of such +conclusion as will render it sublunary to its agreed parallel. + +"But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution. + +"We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is +impossible in connection with neo-psychology." + +There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep. + +She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan +soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for +Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones. + +Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but +the music went inexorably on. + +It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet. + +This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the +applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of +his beard. + +By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever +and she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy +Snow, and it was not Warble's way to cut in. + +In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions +from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, +and Warble went back to sleep. + +There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was +cleared for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a +small glass of punch and a wafer to each. + +Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper +buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys. + +Warble and Petticoat reached home. + +"Howja like 'em?" he asked. + +"I'm so hungry," she wailed. + +"Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It +isn't done. Watch Iva Payne--she doesn't." + +"Oh, Bill--" Warble began to cry. "I want to go back to the +restaurant--" + +"No, no--now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're a +smart crowd--" + +Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled +up her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and +waited to be kissed. + +She was. + +* * * * * + +Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a +built-in English bed, with gray draperies. + +Through a cloth of silver portiere, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. +Oxidized silver plumbing exposure. + +No pictures on the walls, save one--a barbaric Russian panel by +Larrovitch. + +At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk--all gray. + +A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon +it and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the +quarrel. + +"They took to you," he said, "you went like hot cakes!" + +It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging +smile, wheedled, "Pleathe, pleathe--" + +"No," Petticoat said, inexorably, "if you eat all the time you'll get to +look like that soprano. Howja like that?" + +"Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?" + +"Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're +my--well, you're my soulmate." + +"Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my +appetite--you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!" + +He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about +his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Warble's own maid was named Beer. + +A French thing--so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied +with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that +displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris +reported skirts going up or down as the case might be. + +A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, +and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll. + +Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it +impossible. Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard +sauce off a hot apple dumpling. + +"Do you get enough to eat, Beer?" her mistress asked her. + +"Wee, maddum," the maid replied, in her pretty War French. "I eat but a +small." + +"Well, don't drop to pieces, that's all," warned Warble. As to personal +care and adornment the hitherto neglected education of Warble Petticoat +was in Beer's hands. And she handed it out with unstinted lavishness. + +That was the way things came to Warble; in slathers--in big fat chunks. +In avalanches and rushing torrents. + +Beer engineered all her new wardrobe, and received sealed proposals for +its construction. + +Beer taught her the mysteries of the toilette table, and once initiated +into this entrancing art, Warble let herself go in the matter of +cosmetics and make-ups, and could scarce wait for Beer's afternoon out, +to dabble about by herself. + +Beer taught her how to wear jewelry, and directed what pieces she should +ask Petticoat for next. + +Altogether, Warble was trying out things--but carefully, as a good +housewife tries out lard. + +And she was not yet certain as to the results. Environment has to +reckon, now and then with heredity. + +Warble, at soul, all for utility, economy, diligence and efficiency, +transplated to Butterfly Center, with its keynote of careless idleness, +waste motion and extravagance. + +One must win out. Had she a Dempsey of a heredity against a Carpentier +of an environment? Or was it the other way round? + +She planned to reform Butterfly Center, to do away with the street +statues, the useless patches of flowers; tear down and rebuild the +ridiculous classic architecture of many of the shops and substitute +good solid livable houses for the castles and chateaux, the barracks and +bungalows that adorned the residence section. + +These reforms she meant to bring about shortly, but first, she must +begin with her home. + +In her pride of being a Petticoat she loved every detail of Ptomaine +Haul. Yet she knew it did not express herself, it was not the keynote of +her own Warbling personality. + +What to do. + +She sat in her boudoir, its mauve walls and gold Japanese screens +backgrounding her plump prettiness, as she lolled on a gold brocade +_chaise longue_. + +She glanced out at the peacocks strutting in the Italian garden and +listened to the rooks cawing in the cypresses between the marble urns on +the terrace steps. + +It was a big proposition to change all that. To turn the bird sticks +into pruning hooks and the bird baths into plowshares. + +Could she do it? + +Doubtful. + +She went out into the hall and looked over the rail of the great +rotunda. Rugs hung from the rail, as it might be a Turkish Monday. + +Below, she could see the lake in the front hall, also she could glimpse +the armored bronze Petticoats guarding the entrance that led to the +corridor that led to the hall leading into the dining-room. + +It was well nigh hopeless. + +Warble sighed. Then she rang for Beer and ordered some French pastry and +a cup of chocolate. + +Revived and revivified, Warble decided on a mad dash for reform. + +Ordering Beer to dress her quickly, she did all she could to help, and +soon, in a daring combination of canary, black and coral, she was on her +way to the shops. + +She achieved what is known as a utility box, and which is compounded of +matting and a few bamboo strips. + +This she caused to be set up in her boudoir. + +Came Petticoat. + +No oral observations, but the next day an antique Florentine chest, +carved by Dante, replaced the box. + +"Just as utile," Bill remarked, "and a lot more expensive. Kiss me." + +That is the way the Petticoats of this world decree, and that is the way +the Warbles submit. + +That Thursday afternoon she was in love with her husband. She toddled +into his room to talk to him. She was in pastel chiffon boudoir +jambieres picked out with rosebuds. She sat, cross-legged, on one of his +gray satin floor pillows and looked up at him. + +Petticoat was just going out and he sat before the mirror, earnestly +adjusting a hair net over his permanent. + +"Hello, _Fruit Mousse_," he said, half absent-mindedly, as he went on +adjusting. + +Big Bill Petticoat was far from being effeminate. He was found of +aesthetics and anaesthetics, and his chief interests in life were beauty +and his big bills. + +"What's the use of beauty, if a thing isn't useful?" Warble would ask, +and Petticoat would reply, "What's the use of use, anyway? There's no +use in having anything that isn't beautiful." + +And as the house was under Petticoat rule, Big Bill won out. + +"You must have a party, Warble," Petticoat said, as he fitted a long, +slim cigarette into a long, slim holder. + +"I'd rather have a baby," and she looked up at him inquiringly. + +"Honest, Warbie, I can't afford it. I've lots of money, but we take a +lot of keeping ourselves, and to keep a baby means almost a whole +extra establishment. Let's wait till I've saved up a bit, or we have a +windfall. Leathersham owes me a small fortune for his cook's ptomaine +cases--she's always getting poisoned with her imported canned +things--but Goldie's slow pay, and too, I want to make a few +improvements on the place. I'm thinking of bringing over a Moorish +Courtyard intact--nice, eh?" + +"What's it good for?" demanded Warble. "We've done our courting, and +anyway--look here, Bill, there's only three things I can do. Have a +baby--" + +"Cut it out, Warb; I haven't the means just now. And it might be twins." + +"That's so. Well, the second thing is to reform this town. It's going +to the dogs--to little, silly Pekes and Poms. I can save it, and correct +its ways and put it on a sound utilitarian basis." + +"Don't believe you could do that." + +"Can do. But the third trick is to flop over to their side and be like +the town people myself." + +Petticoat laughed outright. + +"Nixy on that, Warble, my duck. You'd have to reduce." + +"I speck I should. Well, then the reform act for mine. I've got to do +something, Pet, to keep amused and interested." + +"That's what I said. Have a party." + +"I will. And it will be part of the reform. These people are too +highbrow. Too soulful. Too artistic--" + +"Warble! How many times have I told you _never_ to use that word! Now, +look here, if you want to play at reforming, go ahead, nobody will +interfere with you. But where'll you get time? You spend most of your +waking hours in slumber, and the rest, eating. You're a sweet, lovely, +cuddly thing, but if you keep on, some day you'll find you can't get +your kimono together." + +"Then I'll wear two. But, Bill, I'm not so big, you know." + +Warble up, and parading the room with a martial air. + +"You're a perfect Bellona!" Petticoat said, smiling at her. + +"A Bologna! Oh, you horrid thing! But that reminds me I haven't had +sausage lately. I must speak to cook. Now, about my party." + +"Have a good one while you're about it. I might import a Spanish +Ballet--" + +"You might do nothing of the sort! This is to be my party, and I shall +run it to suit myself." + +"All right, Tutti Frutti; you have no subtlety or poetry in your +soul--indeed, I doubt if you have a soul--but you're a dear and a +sweet--" + +"Bill, I've an idea! Build bureaus right down to the floor and then +collar buttons can't roll under them!" + +"Fine idea! Better patent it. Must go. Goodby." + +"Wait a minute. Mrs. Holm Boddy is coming to see me to-day. What's she +like?" + +"Oh, she's a hen-minded Hetty with cabriole legs. Don't bother with her +much. They're lower case people--tin pergola and pebble garden sort. And +early Victorian bathrooms. You won't like her--freeze her out." + +"All righty. Say--Billy dear--has you any choclums?" + +"Not for little gourmands," he took her in his arms. "I say, Warbie, you +promised to cut out sweets. Look here." + +He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning +ancestors looked down in painted disapproval. + +They were all slender--wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a fatty +in the bunch. + +Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale. + +"I don't care!" Warble exploded, angrily. "If you don't give me enough +to eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And +you needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care _that_ for +them!" + +She snapped a dimpled pink thumb and forefinger at the whole exhibit, +made a face at the skinniest one of all, and then sneaked casually into +Bill's arms. + +"Nice, nice," she cooed, patting his mastoid process. "Run along now, +and I'll plan my party." + +* * * * * + +"That Boddy woman," remarked Beer, as she dressed Warble; "she is a +pest--a pill! Wait, Maddum, I beg you! I've only rouged one of your +cheeks!" + +"That's enough," said Warble, inattentively, and she danced down stairs +to freeze out her caller. + +"I've been meaning to come for some time," Mrs. Holm Boddy said, "but I +thought I'd give you a chance to get a little used to your new grandeur. +Quite a change for you, isn't it?" + +"No," said Warble, "it's rather a come down. I've always been very +grand. Tell me about yourself." + +"Oh, I'm the old-fashioned wife and mother. Devoted to my home, and my +family. I deplore the modern tendency to neglect one's own fireside." + +"Yes, I should think you'd be happier there than anywhere else." + +Warble gazed at her guest. She was a tall, angular woman, so gaunt that +her bones rattled. Warble wondered if Bill would really like her to be +like that. + +"Oh, I am. My dear husband, my darling children--you ought to have a lot +of children, Mrs. Petticoat." + +"Yes, I shall, when we can afford it. My husband isn't very well off +just now, you see." + +"You live very extravagantly. Look at those rugs, now. Rugs cost +fearfully." + +"Don't you have any?" + +"Oh, no. We don't waste money that way." + +"Bare floors?" + +"No, carpets. More homey, you know. Nice Brussels in the parlor--real +Body Brussels--Bigelow--and in the bedrooms, Ingrain. Oh, the hominess +of a new-laid Ingrain carpet, with lots of fresh straw under it! You +acquainted with Avery Goodman, the Rector?" + +"I've met him." + +"Splendid man-spiritual-minded and all that. Fine preacher, too. Very +soulful. I often sob right through his sermons. Better go hear him." + +"My husband is a busy man--we haven't time for church." + +"No, spose not. Doctors are kept on the jump. Specially specialists. And +I know your husband is busy. Say, is there any truth in the report that +he pays the grocers and delicatessen men to get--you know--doubtful +canned goods, and not too fresh sea foods and all that--so there'll be +more ptomaine cases?" + +"What a good idea!" Warble cried. "I had not heard of it, but if Bill +does that he's more efficient than I thought him!" + +"I spose he's terribly in love with you?" + +"Bill? Oh, yes. We adore each other." + +"I didn't know. The Petticoats are all so thin--" + +"Yes, a change is always pleasant." Warble gave her engaging smile. + +"Maybe. That Daisy Snow now--she's so pretty _and_ slender. Dr. +Petticoat seems mighty fond of her." + +"Well, you know what doctors are. Nice to everybody, of course. There's +no telling who'll have ptomaine poisoning next." + +"Oh, yes, you can always tell that. It's sure to be Iva Payne. She's +awful attractive, too. You must be worried about your man, Mrs. +Petticoat." + +"I do worry a lot. It keeps my flesh down. Tell me more to worry about." + +"Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of +your own?" + +"Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right." + +"You are! Why, where did your husband get you?" + +"He got me out of a mail catalogue." Warble made a face at her. "Must +you go, Mrs. Boddy?" she rose. "I won't ask you to come again, as I know +how you love your own home and fireside. Goodby." + +Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out +of the front door and slammed it after her. + +"That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul," she said, as +she went down to see the cook about the sausage. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her +party should be a success. + +In the morning she interviewed the cook. + +"You can spread yourself on the feast, Francois," she said, "have +any old menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But +especially I want you to make for me one hundred custard pies." + +The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his +duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish. + +"But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a creme pate?" + +"No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard +pie--see? _Pie_! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! +Get out of my way, I'll make them myself!" + +Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job +and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she +herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust. + +Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen +custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows. + +"Not to be served with the supper," Warble warned the butler, "when I +want them brought in I'll tell you." + +Beer dressed Warble for the party, Petticoat standing by and advising. + +The gown was a few wisps of henna-colored chiffon which fitfully blew, +half concealed, half disclosed a scant slip of jade green satin. + +Flesh-colored stockings, Petticoat decreed, and henna slippers with +carved jade buckles. + +"Now, her hair--" he mused, leaning on his folded arms over the back of +a chair. + +He walked slowly round Warble. + +"Oh, wopse it up anyway," he said, "and tangle some jade beads in it. +She'll stand that." + +His orders were carried out and Beer clasped her hands in silent ecstasy +at the result of the combined efforts of herself and her master. + +"Some day, Warble," Bill said, "I'll teach you how to dress becomingly." + +"And I'll teach you how to undress becomingly," said Beer, not wanting +to be outclassed in her own game. + +Warble waved Petticoat out of the room, dismissed Beer with a simple +"Get out!" and then quickly flung off the clothes she wore and hopped +into a little frock of white organdie and cherries. + +She wadded some hair over each ear, piled up the rest in a moppy coil +and crowned it with a wreath of cherries. + +The party came. + +"Good Heavens!" Warble thought, as she looked at the smart, bored crowd, +"have I got to bring these hifalutin creatures down to earth? I don't +know that I can make them laugh, but I'll give them a jolt!" + +She did. + +Her cherries bobbing, two long-stemmed ones held between her teeth, she +flew around like a hen with its head off. + +"You see," she explained, "it's a Mack Sennett party, everybody puts +things down everybody's back. Like this--and here are the things." + +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. They had to put them down the backs of the men +only, because the fashionably dressed ladies hadn't any backs to put +them down. You can't put an oyster down two crossed strings of pearls. + +It caused great hilarity to see the Reverend Goodman standing on his +head, trying to lose a red-hot silver dollar; and Daisy Snow, whose +debutante frock was available for the purpose, wriggled beneath the +tickling crawling of a large but harmless spider. + +Warble was almost in hysterics over the funny antics of Goldwin +Leathersham down whose loose and ample collar she had herself poured a +glass of water on two seidlitz powders. + +"Next," she cried, clapping her hands, "we'll have an artistic game. +Here it comes." + +Lackeys and minions brought in pails of kalsomine, of various tints, +some of pale pastel shades, others of deep rich hues. One was given to +each guest, and each was provided with a beautiful new whitewash brush. + +"Now," Warble explained, her blue eyes dimpling with delight, "you each +make a splash on the wall--a big, hit-or-miss splash. Then we each try +to evolve a lovely picture by few bold strokes." + +This was great fun. + +Manley Knight, with a mighty splash of color that landed on a Fragonard +panel, had quite a good start for a "Storm at Sea." He worked it up with +fine technique and you would have been surprised at the result. + +Iva Payne took a splash from several different pails thereby achieving a +Cubist landscape. It was entitled "High Tide off the Three-mile Limit," +and was a startling success. + +Daisy Snow, timid little dear, made but a tiny daub and worked it up +carefully. + +"That," she said, "is a miniature of Big Bill." + +All in all, it was gay sport, and even Mrs. Charity Givens took part, +though she protested she was no artist and couldn't even draw a straight +line. + +The next performance was a contest between Adam Goodsport and Avery +Goodman. + +Bets were made on the two contestants before the betters knew what the +scrap was to be. + +"It's a character sketch," Warble explained. "Mr. Goodsport tries to +blacken Mr. Goodman's character, while the Rector tries to whiten Mr. +Goodsport's character." + +Avery Goodman was then presented with a bag of flour and Adam Goodsport +was handed a bag of soot. + +They went at it hand over fist, and in a few moments the blacking +and whiting process was so complete that both were pronounced perfect +transformations and all bets were off. + +Faces, hands and clothes were alike befloured and besooted, until +Goodman was a veritable Blackamoor while Adam Goodsport looked like a +Marcelline. + +A few eyebrows indicated a suspicion that Big Bill Petticoat's bride was +a Little Mischief, but nobody said anything about it. + +"If I can only reform them," Warble thought to herself, "if I can only +make them like and enjoy this innocent fun instead of wearing their poor +brains out over capitalled Art and Literature." + +"Now," she said, briskly, "we're going to play a game I learned in +Shanghai. All take off your shoes and stockings. No one excused--come +on--off with them." + +Beer and a few other maids came in to assist the ladies, the men were +properly valeted, and the barefooted crowd sat waiting further orders. + +Daisy Snow made a remark about being a maiden with reluctant feet, but +nobody noticed it. + +Several seemed rather relieved than otherwise at the condition imposed +upon them. + +"Now," said Warble, but before she could go further, Adam Goodsport +butted in with: + +"Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat--oh, please! Such an opportunity! May never +occur again! Oh, can't I--may I not--oh, dear lady, do say yes--" + +"Lordy, what do you want to do? Speak out, man!" + +"Why, you see, I am a solist--like a palmist you know--but as to feet. +I studied solistry in Asia Minor and I know it from the ground up. Oh, +please, Mrs. Petticoat, let me read your sole!" + +"Do," cried Warble, "love to have you." + +She plumped herself into a pillowed divan, and held her little pink feet +straight out in front of her. + +Goodsport, sitting on a cushion at her feet, took one and scrutinized +the sole. + +"The Solar system," he began, "is interesting in the extreme. It was +invented by Solon, though Platoe also theorized on the immortality of +the sole. His ideas, however have been discarded by modern footmen. + +"Locke, is his treatise On the Human Understanding, discusses the +subject fully and with many footnotes, and old Samuel Foote himself cast +footlights on the subject." + +"Now, looky here," Warble objected, "I won't have a lecture in my house! +I object to anything of an intellectural nature." + +"This has nothing to do with the intellect," Adam assured her. "Quite +the reverse, now, you listen. It's really interesting. The palmist may +claim to read the true character from the lines of the hand, but it is +only by solistry that the real sole is laid bare and the character of +a subject in any walk of life is exposed. The lines of the sole are +greatly indicative of character, for all traits must draw the line +somewhere. Now, Mrs. Petticoat, this line extending from the Mount of +Trilby to the outer side of the sole is the life line. If that appears +to be broken it indicates future death. If more pronounced on one sole +than the other, it implies that the subject has one foot in the grave. +You haven't, don't be alarmed. Here is the headline, straight and +continuous, showing a long and level head." + +"Ouch," remarked Warble, "you tickle. Try somebody else," and she drew +her feet under her. + +"Me," exclaimed Daisy Snow, coming over and holding out her dainty right +foot. + +"H'm," said Goodsport. "This line running from the Mount of Cinderella +to the heel is the clothes line and denotes love of dress. This line +crossing it is the fish line and shows you are incapable of telling the +truth." + +Daisy flounced away, mad, and Mrs. Charity Givens, with some +trepidation, offered her ample and generous foot for dissection. + +"A thorough, broad understanding and a friendly footing toward all," +declared the solist, "and no danger of misunderstanding. However, your +broken headline indicates pugnacity." + +"Nothing of the sort!" she snapped at him, and waddled away. + +Goldwin Leathersham, greatly interested, insisted on having his pedal +interpreted. + +"Mount of Atalanta highly prominent," said Goodsport, "that means +you are a runner, either for office or for pleasure. Here is a line +meeting--that indicates a railroad man. H'm. A well-developed football +shows you have been to college. You seem to be inclined to solemates--" + +But Leathersham had taken to his heels. + +"Please," said Iva Payne, gracefully offering her long psychic foot for +perusal. + +"Ah, the poetic foot!" the soloist exclaimed. "There are two kinds +of poetic feet--the Iambic and the Trochaic. You have one of each. In +poetic feet the heels are often found in French forms. But poets are +a footloose class and are often found with lame and halting feet. You +don't seem to be a poet." + +"Never said I was," retorted Iva, shortly, and Warble said, "Stop this +nonsense, it makes too much kicking. Now we're going to play the game I +learned in Buda Pesth." + +She led them to the picture gallery which had been prepared for the game +by having many sheets of fly-paper placed on the floor, sticky side up. + +"It's Fly-paper Tag," she said. + +It _was_ Fly-paper Tag--she was quite right. + +"You're it!" screamed Mrs. Givens as she pushed the minister over onto a +sheet of fly-paper. + +"It yourself," shrieked Leathersham adroitly shoving a sheet where he +saw Mrs. Givens would light next. + +* * * * * + +Warble was certain she was a great reformer. + +Yet would these reformed people stay reformed? + +True, they were now in the spirit of her party, Mack Sennett himself +couldn't have asked a better interpretation of his own vital principles. +But had they come to realize that this after all was the real thing, the +true ideal? + +Warble feared. + +* * * * * + +They were a stuck-up lot. The fly-paper had intrigued them all. 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. Judge Drinkwater folded Daisy Snow's two little +hands together, then wrapped them tightly in fly-paper, and shook with +laughter to see her futile attempts to get free. + +"Naughty man!" she cried, "to make poor little me so helpless!" With +a spring she flung her entangled hands over the Judge's head, and hung +round his neck like a pretty little millstone. + +Warble relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired and very hungry. + +But she was the stuff of which true reformers are made and Martin Luther +had nothing on her. + +Then Beer came tripping in with a pile of varicolored garments which she +held up to view. + +"These," Warble announced, "are the real Mack Sennett costumes. They +are one-piece bathing suits, I got them from an importer of contraband +goods. You are to put them on in place of your clothes. And please +forget that you are Butterflies and turn into bathing beauties and +champion swimmers." + +While they were shyly getting into the suits, she donned her own, a +little scalloped apron effect, with cross-strapped sandals, and a silk +bandanna knotted round her head. + +She glanced about and saw Big Bill Petticoat beaming with proud glee at +his wife's social success, and looking lovely himself in a black satin +one-piece, with jet shoulder straps. + +For a second Warble could see only Petticoat's pink cheeks and perfected +eyebrows. Then she shook off the spell and keyed up. + +"We're going to have an obstacle race," she announced, "all over the +house. You must follow me, wherever I go. I shall lead you a dance! And +then I shall come last to the lake in the front hall, and whoever is +nearest me there, will be rewarded." + +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. + +She flew past Petticoat, only pausing to shout, "Like it all, my tramp? +Yes, it _is_ an expensive party." + +Then she led her followers a mad race. Sliding down banisters, squeezing +into dumb waiters; crawling under beds and out the other side; jumping +in and out again of bathtubs full of perfumed water. Out of windows, in +at scuttles. Through booby-traps of half-open doors, on the lintel of +which were perched pans full of live crabs or little boxes of mice. + +On rushed the horde, Mrs. Givens panting from over exertion, Goldie +Leathersham limping because of a crab hanging to his great toe. + +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. + +Wherefore Trymie's soft plop into the oily depths was of a ludicrous +nature. + +Then the guests were allowed to resume their own clothes and supper was +announced. + +Conversation turned to art matters, and Leathersham who was a collector +of many various rarities asked Petticoat how his new collection was +progressing. The collection was one of early American Pieplates. + +"Doing well," Big Bill answered. "I have just achieved a yellow earthen +John Adams, that is authentic and very rare. Except for my Barbara +Frietchie tin one, it is perhaps the gem of my collection." + +"Good!" Leathersham exclaimed, interestedly, "may I see it?" Petticoat +summoned a lackey and two minions and sent them to his curio room to +fetch the plates. But they returned with the startling announcement that +all the pieplate collection had disappeared! + +"Heavens and earth!" Petticoat cried. "Lock the doors, search the +pockets! Why, that collection is worth millions!" + +"What's the matter?" Warble inquired, seeing the hullaballoo. "Oh," as +she was told, "I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and +our pieplates gave out." + +"Making a lot of pies?" Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold +Leathersharn murmured, "How quaint!" in a supercilious way. + +"Yes," went on Warble, unperturbed. "Want to see 'em?" + +They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the +pantry windows. + +"Whoopee!" shouted Petticoat, "here's where I take the helm! Cut out the +rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest." + +It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with +this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their +terrible aestheticism at last? + +Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over +the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. "Oh," she cried, astounded. +"I wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just +eating what I wanted." + +"You're a dear," Marigold Leathersham said to her. "I'm going to love +you. How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing." + +"Yes, he does." Warble stated. "At least, he says so." + +"He's a truthful man," Marigold declared, "you'd know that just to look +at him. There's something in his face just now--" + +"It's pie," said Warble, "he's very fond of it." + +To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final +entertainment. + +"Folks," she said, "this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be +complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides." + +Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they +chose sides. + +The party being thus divided, they bombarded each other with custard +pies after the manner of certain comedians, till there wasn't a round of +ammunition left. + +Then Iva Payne said she felt sick and wanted to go home and of course +just for that they all had to go. + +"The nicest party ever!" they chorused at parting. "So novel and +_naive_--so quite entirely out of the ordinary." + +As the last pied guest disappeared she turned wearily to her Petticoat. + +"I tell you, Warb," he said, "you are sure one corker! You put 'em to +sleep all right! Now you've shown 'em how, you bet they won't go on +having their stupid highbrow intellectural old gatherings. Hop along to +bed, little tired Lollipop." + +His long lithe arms gathered her forcefully to him, and her irritation +at his strength was lost in her admiration of his grace and skill in +imparting affection. + +* * * * * + +From _The Butterfly Centerpiece_: + +The Mack Sennett party at the home of Dr. Bill Petticoat was a hundred +per cent success. Little Lady Petticoat is nobody's fool. She knows that +a lucky punch is her only chance. A short, swift hook, straight from the +shoulder. The pretty Warble is a perpetual promise of joy, yet she shows +symptoms of curvature of the soul--and it is, so far, a toss-up whether +she will have her passport _vised_ or be given the gate. + +* * * * * + +The week after, the Leathershams gave a party. The gilt-chaired audience +listened to Sable Caviaro the new Russian violinist and Slubber D. +Gullion, who discoursed on the Current Trend of Current Bolshe Vikings. + +The refreshing episode consisted of champagne and Saratoga chips. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +The Restless Sexteen was the record altitude of Butterfly Center. It was +the elect and select of the intellect; it was the whole show--the very +Wholly of Whollies. To belong to it was canonization. Though some of its +members also belonged to the Toddletopsis Club, it meant their leading a +double life. + +The Restless Sexteen were mostly young married women with their husbands +as nonresident members. + +They studied higher psychology and broader psychopathy. The wrestled +with and threw Einstein and let themselves dream again with Freud. +Psychoanalysis was their washpot, and over the fourth dimension did they +cast their shoes. + +Their afternoon digest was held at Faith Loveman's and Warble went. + +The Loveman home was an abstract bungalow, which showed rather plainly +the iron hand in the velvet glove influence of the Japanese. + +The large light hall had a built-in abstract table, and on this was an +enormous bronze plaque which held a thin layer of water on which rested +one pansy. + +Faith's devotion to the Doctrine of Elimination allowed nothing else +in the hall, but in the living room there were three whole pieces of +furniture besides, of course, the caterer's gilt chairs brought in to +hold the restless sex as they tried to rest from their restlessness. + +Faith Loveman looked curiously at Warble. + +"You can't be very restless," she observed, "you'd be thinner." + +Warble smiled engagingly. + +"I do want to be thinner," she conciliated, "how can I?" + +And, somehow, that started them all off. They restlessly gave advice, +recommended certain exercises, uncertain drugs and most unattractive +diets. + +They told their own experiences, extolled or berated their masseuses, +scribbled addresses of corsetieres for one another, and in their +interest and restless excitement they forgot all about Warble and she +wanted to go home. + +But she had her mission to perform, and she waited until they restlessly +changed the subject. + +They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than +the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin +Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she +understand. + +"Are you of the cognoscenti?" asked Faith Loveman of Warble. "I know +all about art but I don't know what I like," she returned, blushing +prettily. + +"Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to +find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in +our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the +pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble +that breaks. We need an outlet--a vent--you understand?" + +"Yop," said Warble, "your soul pressure is too high." + +"But we want it high--we love it high--we're restless--we're keyed up, +taut-strung, and hungry for soul food." + +"I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings." + +Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went +home. + +* * * * * + +She reflected. + +"It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I +knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems. A big one seems to +be how to get thin and how to stay so. They were all ready to drop the +high sign babble for that! But all women are. They took it up again. + +"Can I reform them? Or shall I be sucked in, like Italians eat +spaghetti, and my personality absorbed by the Butterflies, till I +forswear all I stand for--all my utilitarian ideals shattered, all my +prosaic hopes dashed, all my common sense wrenched from me, and my +poor little brain-pan filled with the soul-mash of these high-strung +sexaphones?" + +She ignored Beer's offer to undress her, she ran upstairs to an +unfrequented bathroom, and flinging off her clothes, she got into the +tub and wept in terror, her body a round pink blob in the briny water. + +But, thought the poor child, it's the most sensible place to cry. + +When Petticoat came home she said: + +"Honeybunch, let me in on your professional secrets. Tell me more about +your most interesting cases. It might make me restless." + +"Nothing much to tell. Life just one ptomaine after another. Cases all +alike except for the primal cause." + +"Well, tell me something. Where've you been just now?" + +"Over to Iva's. She had 'em again. Ripe olives. Getting better. Where +you been?" + +"To the Restless Sexteen Club." + +"Like it?" + +"I don't get it. They talk about things that aren't there. But I think I +could make them see--" + +"Oh, cut it out, Warble. You'd dust books so hard, you'd dust off the +gilt edges. They're deep-sea thinkers, that bunch--let 'em alone. What'd +they talk about?" + +"About a book called 'Painted Shawls' or something, and about +Thyco-Serapy, and about a play called 'The Housebroke Heart.' Take me to +see it, will you, Bill?" + +"You wouldn't like it. You'd prefer the movies." + +* * * * * + +Four days later, Daisy Snow called and gave Warble a jolt or two. + +"Huh, sizing me up, are they?" Warble sniffed. "Looking at me through +the footle, distorted little microscope of their own silly scrubby +little souls! Pooh, they couldn't, one of them, make a decent puff +paste!" + +"But we can get cooks to do that. The Intelligentsia seek for the rare +essence of thought, for colored words and perfumed cadences--" + +"There, there, Daisy, don't try me too far! What did Lotta Munn say +about me?" + +"Oh, she didn't say much. Just that you're too stout and you haven't +any ideals and you don't know a picture from a hole in the wall, and she +thinks a man like Dr. Petticoat is wasted on you." + +"Huh, she used to like Bill herself, didn't she?" + +"Does yet. She's poisoned nearly as often as Iva Payne is." + +"H'm; anybody else after Bill?" + +"Only May Young." + +"And you." + +"Oh, me! I'm just a debutante. I'm not after anybody yet." + +"Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is +mine--and I won't stand for any nonsense about that." + +"My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says +you haven't any." + +"She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?" + +"They made fun of your party--" + +"Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!" + +"They thought those bathing suits were--er--rather bizarre--" + +"I _didn't_ get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. And +they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect." + +* * * * * + +Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands +and knees. + +It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, +dead these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a _chaise +longue_, absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more +hair out of each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely +architectural viewpoint. + +"What's the trouble?" Warble asked, "broken down arches?" + +"Nope, guess they're all right." + +"Say, Bill," and she crept into the hollow of his chest, "are folks +talking about me?" + +"They sure are." + +"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. Besides, I like Iva better." + +"Oh, Bill, don't you love me any more?" + +"Course I do, Little Fudge Sundae. But a popular doctor has +responsibilities." + +"I know. I don't mean to be unreasonable. But let's keep peace in the +family as long as it's convenient--see what I mean?" + +"I see. Do you think I'd like my new pajims better trimmed with frilled +malines, or just decorated with a conventional pattern of gold soutache +braid?" + +Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated _chaise longue_ +made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little. + +Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing +gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through +"What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare," wound his watch, put out his +Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and +back, and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on +his heels. + +But until he bawled, "Aren't you ever going to clear out?" she sat, +unmoving. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The +stories she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an "Oh, my +dear, I can't tell you _that_ one--it's _too_ awful!" + +Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the +point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty. + +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. Charity Givens had heard she was a great heiress, and meant +to stick her for a new hospital. That Le Grand Paynter wanted to do her +portrait, life size and full width, and that the Reverend Avery Goodman +said she was very light on her feet for a fat woman. + +The last made Warble mad and she made a face at Lotta and sent her home. + +* * * * * + +A rose-colored June day. Meringues of cloud floating on a sky of +cerulean custard. + +She crawled out for a walk. It was ninety-eight in the shade, too hot to +run much. + +She walked down Ptomaine Street, her nose shining, and pearly drops +chasing each other down her back like rain on a car window pane. + +In her tucked white dimity and ankle-ties, her pink sunbonnet and her +tiny, frilled parasol, she was as much out of place in the aesthetic +town as whipped cream on a grapefruit. + +She circled the outskirts of the town, and noted the massive and +imposing gateways to the great estates. She knew the grandeur inside, +she had been there. Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian +steppes, and in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an +Egyptian temple excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with +difficulty and at great expense had buried there. + +She did not know what to do about it. + +She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of +their homes. Yet she couldn't let it go on--this gigantic inutility, +this mammoth lack of practical, efficient management. + +Why, the ground sunk in a sunken garden would raise crops enough to feed +an army--and Lord knew how soon they might be needed. + +And then she happened to think that reform, like charity should begin at +home, and she decided to start in on Petticoat. + +She did. + +* * * * * + +They were sitting in their home-like Tower of Jewels, and, a bit +timidly, Warble said, "Let's pote quoetry to each other." + +Poor child, nervousness or emotion always made her reverse her initial +letters. + +"All right," Petticoat returned, good naturedly, "you begin." + +Just what Warble wanted! Fate was always good to her. + +"I will, because I hope to reform your tastes, dear, and teach you to +see the beauty of simple beautiful poetry. Listen to this: + + "Weep and the world weeps with you, + Laugh and you laugh alone--" + +"That'll do, Warb. Don't go too far. Now it's my turn. But, you know, +dear, quoting isn't everything. You must learn to dissect, to interpret, +and above all to trace the influences that swayed the poet. + +"Now I'll read you a poem picked at random, and then I'll trace the +influences for you." + +Petticoat reached out a languid arm, picked up a current magazine and +read: + + "'FULFILMENT + + 'Here, at your delicate bosom, let death + Come to me + Where night has made a warm Elysium, + Lulled by a soft, invisible sea. + + 'Now in the porches of your soul I stand + Where once I stood; + Fed and forgiven by a liberal hand, + My broken boyhood is renewed. + + 'You are my bread and honey, set among + A grove of spice; + An ever brimming cup; a lyric sung + After the thundering battle-cries. + + 'You are my well-loved earth, forever fresh, + Forever prodigal, forever fond, + As, from the sweet fulfilment of the flesh, + I reach beyond.'" + +Noting that Warble was still awake, Petticoat discoursed: + +"In the first line, we note the influence of Swinburne. There could be +no better start out. The Swinburne collocation of delicate bosom and +death is both arrestive and interesting. The third and fourth lines +denote the influence of Poe. To be sure, 'a warm Elysium' sounds like +a new and appetizing soft drink, but that is not what is meant; and the +sea is indubitably the one that sounded around the tomb of Miss Annabel +Lee. + +"The second stanza opens under pure Tennysonian influences. This may +not be clear at first to the beginner in influence tracing, but it +is unmistakably so to the expert. The recurring sibilants, the sound +without sense, the fine architectural imagery, all point to the great +Lady Alfred. The latter half of this stanza is due entirely to the +strong influence of D. W. Griffith. The poem was, without doubt, written +after the poet had been to see 'Broken Blossoms,' and the liberal +hand from which that production was flung to a waiting world left its +ineffaceable finger-prints on his polished mind. + +"Now we come to stanza three. The first line shows the influence of +Mother Goose; the second is an unconscious echo of Solomon's Song; the +ever-brimming cup owes itself to Omar; and the rest of the stanza to +Rupert Brooke. + +"Thus we see the importance of widespread reading, and a catholicity of +influences. + +"Influence is wonderful! To invent a new simile, it is like a pebble +dropped into a placid lake; the ripples form ever-widening circles, and +the influence of an influence is never wholly lost. + +"Perhaps--and this is quite as it should be--the final stanza is the +finest of all. It starts out under the influences of Walt Whitman. Had +Walt been omitted, the whole structure would have tumbled to the ground! +No self-respecting poet now-a-days writes without being influenced by +Whitman. It isn't done. It would be as indiscreet as to appear in one's +shirt-sleeves. The influence of the good, gray Poet _must_ be felt, must +be _shown_, or the budding bard is out of the running. Only a dash +of Whitman is needed--'my well-loved earth' and 'prodigal' are quite +sufficient. + +"'The sweet fulfilment of the flesh' is a final roundup that gracefully +blends Whitman's and Ella Wheeler Wilcox's influential powers--and, +incidentally, justifies the magnificent title of the poem. + +"Then, as a crowning triumph, note the splendid last line, a masterpiece +brought about by the influence of Sir Oliver Lodge and his spiritistic +ilk! Could anything be finer? What imagery for a last line! What a +break-off, leaving the gasping reader in a state of choking suspense, +of avid, ungratified curiosity! A great poem indeed, and influenced by a +noble army of writers. + +"Nor is the manner of the thing all that matters. The theme--the great +idea of the whole affair--is a marvelous example of influence. The New +York State Legislature recently passed a bill making attempted suicide +no longer a punishable offense. If successful, it is, like virtue, +its own reward. Indeed, it has to be, for as the Penal Code distinctly +states, owing to the impossibility of reaching the successful +perpetrator no forfeiture is imposed. But the new law lifts the ban from +futile efforts in the matter of self-destruction, and one need not pay +the hitherto exacted fine of a thousand dollars by way of a luxury tax +on such diversion. + +"Can it be doubted, then, that our Poet read of this new law, and--it +may be unconsciously--was so influenced by it that he devoted sixteen +lines of his precious verse to the expression of his willingness to let +death come to him?" + +"I don't blame him for being willing, and I wouldn't put a straw in +Death's way," said Warble, earnestly. "I'm glad you read me that, Bill, +for that is just the sort of thing I mean to eradicate from your system. +It's like a disease, this aestheticism of yours--it's the Culture +Ptomaine." + +"Now, hold on, Dumpling Dear, do you know a culture from a ptomaine?" + +"Oh, I don't mean the cultures you take, I mean Culture with a big C. +It's a poison, and as you cure ptomaine poisoning, I'm going to cure +this town of its deadly art poisoning. I'm in revolt." + +"That's right, everybody who is anybody is in revolt against something +nowadays, because our knowledge of the truth is too great for our +existing conditions, and it bursts--" + + "Like poor Betsy Binn, who was so very pure within, + She burst this outer shell of sin, + And hatched herself a cherubim!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's. + +Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the +moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called +Seven Hills. + +Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of +Constantine and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the +entrance patio. + +"Hello, Pot Pie," screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, "come on in, the +firewater's fine." + +It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged +Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as +they spun the Toddletops. + +Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others +kindly instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some +other devices of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name. + +Also, there were tables, where those who chose played high-staked +bridge, poker or rum. + +Warble wasn't a born gambler. Games of chance had no appeal for her. She +wanted to make faces at everybody and run away. But she scolded herself +for being too superior and forced herself to stay with the bunch. + +In a way, she was rewarded, for she won all the money from the others. +Her luck was monumental. 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. But it didn't mean +a thing to Warble, for the man was so saturated with art that it oozed +forth in his conversation and she had no idea what he was driving at. + +He went home thinking she was the most deliciously tempting morsel he +had ever seen and the biggest fool. + + * * * * * + +"No, I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, as a gift-book, but +he's no man. Could I kiss him? Not with a real movie kiss. + +"They say marriage is a lottery. I haven't drawn much. I mean in the +matter of love. I wish I had a Prince Charming. Bill would do, all +right, but he thinks I'm too fat. I wish I could get thinner--all of +them are. Lotta's like a golf club and Daisy's like a breadstick. + +"I s'pose they were born that way. + +"I wasn't. + +"I wonder when we'll begin to keep a family. + +"I'm crazy about Bill--I am--I am-- + +"Am I? + +"All the girls are, too. + +"Does he care for them? For any of them? For all of them? + +"For that detestable Daisy? That disgusting Iva? That rotten Lotta! + +"Oh, I may as well admit it--I just adore Bill! + +"This frock is too tight--I must have it stretched. + +"Yes, I'm mad over my husband--but--" + + * * * * * + +She sought Petticoat in his rooms. + +She tumbled into his lap, and he pushed her out until he could set aside +the Angora cat and the Airedale and his pet guinea pig, then he said +politely, "Is this your seat?" and she perched on his knee. + +"Do you love me, dear?" she asked, her voice full of a dumb pathos. + +"Ooooooooooooooooooo! I'm sleepy," he said, with a cavernous yawn and a +Herculean stretch that threw her out on the floor. "Want any money?" She +looked at him. He was not unlike John Barrymore in The Jest, and Warble +fell for him afresh. + +"You are so beautiful--" she wailed. "I wish you loved me--" + +"I wish I did," he returned, honestly, "but you are such a butter-ball." + +"Oh, Butterfly Thenter calls anybody Butter-ball who weights over +ninety-five! If you're so cut up about it I won't live under this roof +another minute! I can earn my own living, and all I want, too! You can +get a divorce and marry some thread of a woman who has ptomaines all the +time!" + +"Pish, tush, Warb, don't be a damfool! Lay off the melodrama. I do love +you--at least, I love ninety-five pounds of you. Now, will you be good?" + +"Yeth." + +"And will you try to think of me as a devoted and loving husband, even +if I'm not one?" + +"Oh, my dear, I am unjust to you! I will take what you give me--what you +can spare from the little dog and the cat and the guinea pig. And I will +be your own little Petty Warblecoat. And I won't give you over to Iva +Payne--I hate her!" + + + + +CHAPTER X + +The mail. + +The Petticoats rarely received mail. It wasn't done much in Butterfly +Center. So unaesthetic. + +On a tray, a lacquered lackey brought a letter to Warble. + +A white letter. Large and square--ominously square. + +Warble took tray and all and went with it to Petticoat's rooms--the +letter was addressed to him. + +She tapped but there was no answer. Listening at the door, she could +hear him splashing in his rock-hewn bath and leaping, chamois-like, from +crag to crag of his quarried bathroom. + +She sat down on the floor and waited. Petticoat's toilets were like +linked sweetness, long drawn out. + +It was late afternon, before he emerged, fresh, roseate and smiling, +and imprinted a kiss on Warble's cheek that left the red stamp of a +lip-sticked mouth. Warble sometimes thought if it could be arranged as a +dating stamp, she could keep a record of when he had last kissed her. + +Poor little Warble--she loved her Big Bill so fondly, and he only looked +on her as something fatter than his dog, a little bigger than his cat. +Timidly she proffered the trayed letter. + +"Oh, my Heavens!" and Petticoat smote himself, hip and thigh. "Where +did you get this? Why was I not told sooner of its arrival? To me! And +postmarked Lake Skoodoow-abskoosis! Home of my ancestors! Woman! Why +this delay? _Why_?" + +"It came this morning," said Warble, apologetically, "but you were in +your bath, and the door was locked." + +"But this is a most important letter. Why didn't you slip it under the +door?" + +"I couldn't," said Warble, simply, "it was on a tray." + +"As I hoped--I mean, feared--" exclaimed Petticoat, tearing the envelope +from the sheet, "he is dead!" + +It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope--she always slit +them neatly with a paper-knife--but she was thrilled by Petticoat's +excitement. + +"A fortune!" he exclaimed. "My revered ancestor, the oldest of the +Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! +Now we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, +too! Oh, Warble, ain't we got fun!" + +He danced about the room, in his blue burnous and red tarbush, looking +more like a howling dervish than a tempestuous Petticoat. + +Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice--and perhaps she could +reform that more easily than she could older people. + +"All right," she said, "and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns +of shuffy fliffon--I mean, fliffy shuffon, no--shiffy fluffon--oh, +pleathe--pleathe--" + +Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, +but Petticoat didn't notice her. + +"I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard," he mused, "he'll know. +The last man I sent to Spain for a casemented facade, brought home a +temple! But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run +over just now--" + + * * * * * + +The baby was coming. + +Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She +sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris +powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca +Delia Robbia and Fra Angelico. + +Also a few influential Madonnas. + + * * * * * + +The Butterflies came in with advice. Marigold Leathersham was dubious +about the wisdom of the plan, but brought a pillow of antique rose +point, filled with ostrich plumes. + +Mrs. Holm Boddy rushed over with a copy of _Poems Every Expectant Mother +Ought to Know_, and Lotta Munn sent a card of diamond safety pins. + +Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling +downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence +didn't amount to much. + +Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of _How to Tell +Your Young_, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and +Faith Loveman sent her own marked copy of _Cooks that Have Helped Me_. + +But Warble made a face at them all, and gave their books to the +Salvation Army and read the Diary of Maggot Somebody. + + * * * * * + +Another fate slather. + +The baby was twins. + +That was the way things came to Warble--fate in big chunks--destiny in +cloudbursts. + +Two little red Petticoats all at once to hang on the ancestral tree. + +But Warble was not caught napping. In her efficient way, she had +provided two bassinets, two nurseries--in fact, she had really provided +three of everything, but the third wasn't needed, and she thriftily +ordered it put aside for the present and for the future. + +Dr. Petticoat was enchanted. + +He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by +the skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on +his offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them +Guelph and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran +off at once to put up their names at various select and inaccessible +clubs. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Petticoat had five hobbies. Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, +Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. + +The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger +days had been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she +flibbered differently now. + +She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. +wing, and permeated the household. + +Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits. Bobbed hair. Smoked cigars. + +About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty. + +Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to +spar with him, being a bit off condition. + +"I've no use for Bill," she would say, "with his custard pie ideals, his +soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine _lingerie_." + +Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir. + +She looked at Warble appraisingly. + +"You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a +blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. +You get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. +What do you think of me?" + +Warble made a face at her. "Corking!" screamed Aunt Dressie, "you come +straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?" + +"Not adequately." + +"H'm. You love him?" + +"Oh, yeth!" + +"All right--love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a +case of ptomaine poisoning--that'd help. But don't take the matter too +lightly. If you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him +go. + +"I've just let mine go. You see we had a place--a sort of Vegetarian and +Free Love Community proposition, but it didn't work out so we sold it." + +"And your husband?" + +"Oh, he's on his own for a while. I'm deciding what to fly at next. I +always ask nephew Bill's advice so as to know what not to do." + +"Forgot to mention it," said Petticoat, strolling in, "but a few people +are coming to-night to help me plan for my new Color Organ." + +"What's that?" asked Warble, gazing at Petticoat in azure-eyed +adoration. + +"Oh, Lord, don't you know _anything_? Tell her, Aunt Dressie!" and +turning on his French heel, Petticoat walked delicately out of the room. + +"Treat him rough, Warble, you're an awful fool," commented the older +woman. "Why, a Color Organ is that marvelous new invention that plays +color instead of sound." + +"Color--instead of--sound--" + +"Yes--now don't try to understand, for you can't possibly. Go and play +with the children." + +"I won't. Tell me more about this thing." + +"I won't. You can hear it to-night, when they all talk about it." + +"What use is it?" + +Aunt Dressie stared at her. "What use are you?" she said. + +Warble's brain stopped beating. + +Bump. + + * * * * * + +What use was she--she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! +What use? Grrrhhh! + +She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the +dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! + +"I don't care! I won't endure it! + +"What's Aunt Dressie anyhow? A military blonde, with glazed chintz +undies! What's Marigold Leathersham? A smart party who wears a hat! + +"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 peaked 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." + + * * * * * + +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." + +She flew back to the room where the eager group had their heads together +over the blue prints and wash drawing of the new color organ. Pushing +in between Iva and Lotta she seized Bill by the arm and said, "hurry up +now--matter of life or death--Polly, the maid--dying--urgent case--" + +By that time they were down in the servant's pantry where Polly was +moaning and groaning and wailing like a banshee. + +"What is it, my dear?" Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very +pretty girl. "Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts +and--" + +"That'll do for a beginning," Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves +and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and +disinfectants. + +"Can you do anything, Bill?" Warble asked anxiously, "it isn't +ptomaines, you know." + +"That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent +bit of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, +it's more than an earache! The bally ear has been stung--or +something--anything bite you, Polly?" + +"Yes, sir, a wasp." + +"She says a wathp!" exclaimed Warble. "Oh, Bill, it may mean blood +poisoning!" + +"Yes, that's true--it is--the ear will have to come off. Guess I'd +better call in old Grandberry to operate--he's an ear specialist--" + +"Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!" + +Warble was dancing about in her excitement. "You can do it, Bill." + +"All right. Get her up on the pastry table--there--that's all right. +Now we'll take her blood pressure--here, Warb, you be taking her +temperature, and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of +instruments--and my X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll +fix you up." Petticoat lighted a cigarette and sat down to take Polly's +pulse. + +"That's right," he said to the men who brought the things he had sent +for, "scuttle back for my rubber gloves, and the chloroform outfit. Tell +my man and his helpers to come down--I may need them--and bring me a +clean handkerchief." + +"Now for an X-ray," he said, a little later, as he adjusted his portable +X-razor. + +"Oh, it's all done," said Warble, "While you were taking her plood +bressure, I cut off her ear--" + +"What with?" + +"Oh, I had a boning knife and the sardine scissors. It's all right. And +I've fixed her hair lovely--in a big curly earmuff, so it will never +show at all. Be quiet for a day or so, Polly, and then you'll be all +right. The only trouble is, after this, orders will probably go in one +ear and out the other--" + +"You're a hummer, Warble," Petticoat said, as they went back up stairs. + +"Yes, it had to be done quickly, you see. And it was out of your line, +so I duffed in. But one thing bothered me a little. You see, the fire +was out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a +lot--something might of blew up." + +"And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown +up--" + +"Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!" + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Porgie Sproggins. + +Cave man. Brute. + +Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable +Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling. + +Warble saw him first across the room at a picture exhibition in Manley +Knight's gallery. + +His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear--and his complexion +was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy grocers' shops. +A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that sort. He was a +Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and Tarzan. + +Warble flew at him. + +"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! He does +portraits that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the +world agog." + +Warble drifted back to the attraction. + +"_Do_ like me," she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from the +blue. + +Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who +could resist her. + +Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, +pressing them back as if he would tear her apart. + +"Let me see your soul!" he demanded, and his great face came near to +peer down through her eyes. + +"Ugh, merely blocked in," and he flung her from him. + +"It isn't block tin!" she retorted, angrily, "it's pure gold--as you +will find out!" + +He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote +himself to Daisy Snow. + +Bing! That was the way things came to Warble. + +Fate, Kismet, Predestination--whatever it was, it came zip! boom! +hell-for-leather! + +"It's not only his strength but his crudeness--like petroleum or +Egyptian art. + +"He can control-- + +"Amazingly impertinent! + +"He wasn't-- + +"But I wish he had been-- + +"He will be!" + + * * * * * + +She went to see him--in his studio. + +A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt +gimcracks. Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons. + +"Get out," he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his +niggling at a miniature. + +Warble made a face at him. + +"Do that again," he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory. + +A few tiny brushmarks. + +A wonder picture of Warble--made face, and all. + +"Pleathe--Pleathe--" she held out her hand, and he dropped the miniature +into it. + +"Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?" he demanded. + +"Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself." + +"I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare." + +"Your name? Your silly first name--" + +"It's a nickname." + +"For what?" + +"Areopagitica." + +"Sweet--sweet--" cooed Warble, dimpling. + +"Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers--" + +"What!" + +"It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my +life. But to be a ragpicker--ah, there's something to strive for! A +rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a +galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines--whoa!--giddap, +there! oh--Warble, come with me!" + +He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and +running around, faced him impishly. + +"Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in +the rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?" + +"No, better stay here--" he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a deep +purple bruise. + +"Why?" + +"Better not stay here--better go home." + +"Why?" + +"Goodby." + +He took her up--it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger--and +set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it. + + * * * * * + +She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she +paused to look in at his door, greeted her: + +"Had a good time?" + +She could not answer. + +He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his +wringing wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. + +"Gooooo--oooo--oo--d night," he said. + +That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. + + * * * * * + +A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling +smattering with a brute beast. + +"No, he is not! He has noble impulses--ragpicking--inspired! His eyes +were misty when he spoke of it-- + +"A way out of Butterfly Thenter! + +"A ragpicker's cart-- + +"A way out--" + +Petticoat held her up. + +"You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins." + +"Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while." + +"Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home." + + * * * * * + +So she was fairly thrown at Porgie. + +Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or +rubbers. + +The night came unheralded. + +Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons--over-ripe +sardines--and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight. + +Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a +stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, +where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black +pool, Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing +her position every ten seconds. + +A giant lumbered in. + +"Porgie!" + +"Saw your husband speeding away--couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take me +upstairs--I want to see your shoe cabinet." + +"Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your +dreams and ideals--your rags--" + +"Ah--rags--you do love me!" + +"I don't know--but I love rags--sweet--so sweet--" + +"You're a misfit here--as who isn't. All misfits, +frauds--fakes--liars--" + +"All?" Warble looked interested. + +"Yes, you little simpleton. I know!" He growled angrily. "Shall I tell +you--tell you the truth about the Butterflies?" + +"Pleathe--pleathe--" + +"I will! You ought to know--you gullible little fool. Well, to start +with, Avery Goodman--in his true nature, he's a worldly, carnal man. His +religion is a cloak, a raincoat, a mere disguise. Mrs. Charity Givens, +now, she's no more truly charitable than I am! She's shrewd and stingy, +her lavish gifts to the poor are merely made for the sake of the praise +and eulogy heaped upon her by her admiring friends. Manley Knight, +renowed for his bravery in the war, is an arrant coward. His soul is +a thing of whining terror, his heroism but a mask. Oh, I know--I read +these people truly, when they sit to me--off guard and unconsciously +betraying themselves. + +"Mrs. Holm Boddy! Pah! She's far from domestic! She yearns for the halls +of dazzling light, for gayety and even debauchery. Her devotion to home +and children is the blackest of lies! And Iva Payne! She's no invalid! +It's a pose to seem interesting and delicately fragile. You should see +her stuff when no one's looking! + +"Judge Drinkwater is a secret drunkard. Lotta Munn is a pauper--an +adventuress, pretending to wealth she doesn't possess. Herman True and +his wife! Zounds, if you could hear those two quarrel! Yet they pose as +lovers yet, and folks fall for it!" + +"May Young?" Warble asked, breathlessly. + +"An old maid. Well preserved, but no chicken. And Daisy Snow! +Angel-faced debutante! Huh, she knows more than her mother ever dreamed +of! You should see her in my studio, at her sittings! Cocktails, +cigarettes, snatches of wild cabaret songs and dances--oh, Daisy Snow is +a caution!" + +"The Leathershams?" + +"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." + +"You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you--" + +"Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie--and you saw him first." + + * * * * * + +Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head. + +Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the +rapids are below you! + +Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First--all the deadly +virtues called her. + +Did she heed? + +As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. + + * * * * * + +On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie +came. + +Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the +moon-parlor. She wore a picture frock of _point d'esprit_ and tiny pink +rosebuds, and little pink socks and sandals. + +"Come out on the Carp Pond," he muttered, picking her up and stuffing +her in his pocket. "Nobody will see us." + +He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three +of his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted +back. Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail +of his ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in. + +"Think of it!" he boomed. "No fetters of fashion, no gyves of +convention. Free--free as air--free verse, free love, free lunch--ah, +goroo--goroo!" + +"Goroo--" agreed Warble, "sweet--sweet--" + +"Sweet yourself!" roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his +gorilla-like arms just as a ringing, musical, "Ship ahoy!" sounded on +their ears. + +"Hello there, Warbie!" + +She knew then it was Petticoat. + +"Having a walk?" he inquired, casually. + +"Yop," she casualed back. + +He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and +snatched Warble in beside himself. + +"Time to go home," he said, cheerfully. "Good night, Sproggins." + +He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and +twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather +touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. + +"Now, Warb, what about the baboon?" + +"I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? +Pleathe--" + +"Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing--a good old +Cotton-Petticoat--birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has +none of these--" + +"But he loves me!" Warble wailed. + +"Yes, 'cause he can't get you. Go along with him, and then see where +you'll be! No, my Soufflee, you hear me! Can the Porgie and stick to +your own Big Bill--your own legit." + +"But you don't love me--" + +"Oh, I do--in my quaint married-man fashion. And--ahem--I hate to +mention it--but--" + +"I know--and I _am_ banting--and exercising, and rolling downstairs and +all that." + +"Well, we're married, and divorces are not the novelty they once +were--so let's stay put." + +"Kiss me, then--" + +He brushed a butterfly kiss across her left eyebrow, and together they +strolled back into the house, and as he went up to bed, Warble went down +to the pantry to see about something. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter," Warble sobbed, "I don't +b-belong--and I-m g-going away--" + +"All right," Petticoat said, cheerfully, "how long'll you be gone?" + +"It may be four yearth and it may be eleven--" + +"Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done." + +"You d-don't underthtand--I'm going to find my plathe in the world--I +don't belong here." + +"All right. Can I go 'long?" + +"No; you stay here. I'm--oh, don't you thee--I'm leaving you!" + +"Oh, that's it?" + +"You'll have the girls to amuse you--" + +"What girls?" + +"Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young--" + +"They're not girls--they're married women--" + +"What!" + +"Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the +time--they're pretty modern, you know. They have separate +establishments, but they're friendly, pally, and even a heap in love +with each other." + +"I don't believe it--" + +"Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble--that is, if you care to +tell." + +"I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life--not a Butterfly +existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I +can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going--oh, +I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of +Butterfly Thenter!" + +"Warble--haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? The +Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers--" + +"It isn't that, Bill, dear--it's that--you don't love me very much--" + +Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden +curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump +shoulder to the other. + +"Goodby, Warble," he said. + + * * * * * + +That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited +measure--freedom! + +Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen +down on the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and +indomitable, on her way. + + * * * * * + +Hoboken. + +Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, +cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, +cauldrons, boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, +jars, labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, +inflamed oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis. + +That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position +was that of a pickle taster. + +At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium +cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills. + +A conscientious taster--faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing +speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well. + +Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her. + +Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of +Petticoats. + + * * * * * + +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! + +"Gee, you're great!" he cried, "I'm for you!" + +She got leave from the factory for a couple of years, with privilege of +extension. + +"I don't want to impose on your kindness," he said, "but I'd like +to chase around Hoboken and take in the sights, I've never been here +before." + +"There's a Bairns' Restaurant," said Warble, shyly, "we might go there." + + * * * * * + +They did. In a taxicab. He held her in his lap and told her the news. + +He had had his own rooms done over. Mediaeval setting. Romanesque +arches. Stained-glass windows. Sculptured cloisters. Good work. + +"How are the twins?" she asked, timidly. "Pleathe." + +"Fine. Miss you terribly--we all do. Butterfly Center mourns your loss. +Spring a come-back, won't you, Warble?" + +"You want me?" + +"More than anything in the world! I'm mad about you! You beauty! You +raving beauty! You'll be the talk of the world this winter. Gee, Warble, +how I can dress you, now you're thin! Won't Beer be astounded!" + + * * * * * + +That's the way things came to Warble. + +The only thing she wanted, her husband's love, now flung at her feet +in unstinted measure, pressed down and running over--love, slathers of +it--all for her! It was sweet--a pleasant change from pickles. + +"How's everybody?" + +"Here and there. Iva's gone." + +"Thank Heaven! Where'd she go?" + +"Dunno. Her husband took her off. Jealous of me." + +"H'm. And Daisy Snow?" + +"Gone into the movies. She grew too heavy for society. May Young's in +the Old Ladies' Home." + +"And Lotta Munn?" + +"Murdered by her husband. He had to kill her--she wouldn't support +him. The Leathershams are in the poorhouse, and Mrs. Charity Givens has +bought their place. Want to go on a second honeymoon? Round the world?" + +"Yop." + + * * * * * + +They went. One night, sitting on top of the Taj Mahal, 'neath the Blue +Moon of Persia, Warble cried, + +"Shall I go back to Butterfly Thenter--or shall I not?" + +"Spin a toddletop," said Petticoat, taking one from his pocket. + +She spun it and it came up pickle foundry. + +So Warble said, "All right, dear, I'll go home with you whenever you're +ready," and she kissed him slenderly. + + * * * * * + +Ptomaine Haul. + +Two Petticoats arriving. A happy Warble sprang from the car and seemed +fairly to skim up the steps. She passed, unnoticing, the pantry door, +and flew up to her own rooms which had been done over to suit her new +slenderness. + +"Beer," she cried, "look at me!" + +"Maddum!" cried the astounded Beer. "What done it?" + +"Unrequited love and pickles. I can wear sport clothes now!" + +"Maddum can wear anything or nothing!" declared Beer triumphantly. + +That night, Warble, her hands behind her, wafted into Petticoat's room. + +He sat on the edge of his bed, running lingerie ribbons in his +underwear. + +"I'll stay, always," Warble said, sidling up to him. "And I'm happy. +But..." + +"Look out! Don't let the cat get that bolt of ribbon to play with!" + +She smoothed his pillows and patted his sheets, while Petticoat glanced +at her a little suspiciously, from under his gabled eyebrows. + +"But I don't say that Butterfly Center is worth the ground it's built +on. I don't admit that Ptomaine Street is as useful as a Hoboken alley. +I don't admit that Art is any good at all. I've fought like a tiger +and I didn't make a dent on the Butterflies--but, I _have_ grown thin!" +"Sure, you bet you have!" said Petticoat, threading ribbon into his gold +bodkin. "Well, kiss me good night--here you--I see you! Don't you put +those caterpillars in my bed!" + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + +***** This file should be named 8386.txt or 8386.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/3/8/8386/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ebf3958 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #8386 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8386) diff --git a/old/8386-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/8386-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9beb64f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8386-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,5288 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ptomaine Street + +Author: Carolyn Wells + + +Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8386] +This file was first posted on July 5, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + + + + +Text file produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PTOMAINE STREET + </h1> + <h3> + THE TALE OF WARBLE PETTICOAT + </h3> + <h2> + <br /> By Carolyn Wells + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + To Roberta Wolf Buehler My Beloved Friend + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_FORE"> FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>PTOMAINE STREET</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_FORE" id="link2H_FORE"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOREWORD TO A FOOLISH BOOK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A certain Poet once opined + That life is earnest, life is real; + But some are of a different mind, + And turn to hear the Cap-bells peal. + Oft in this Vale of Smiles I've found + Foolishness makes the world go round. + + Ecclesiastes, Solomon, + And lots of those who've passed before us, + Denounced all foolishness and fun, + Not so the gay and blithesome Horace; + And Shakespeare's Jaques, somewhat hotly, + Declared the only wear is Motley! + + We mortals, fools are said to be; + And doesn't this seem rather nice? + I learn, on good authority, + That Fools inhabit Paradise! + Honored by kings they've always been; + And—you know where Fools may rush in. + + And so, with confidence unshaken, + In Cap and Bells, I strike the trail. + I know just how, because I've taken + A Correspondence Course by mail. + I find the Foolish life's less trouble + Than Higher, Strenuous or Double. + Dear Reader, small the boon I ask,— + Your gentle smile, to egg my wit on; + Lest people deem my earnest task + Not worth the paper it is writ on. + Well, at white paper's present worth, + That <i>would</i> be rather high-priced mirth! + + I hope you think my lines are bright, + I hope you trow my jests are clever; + If you approve of what I write + Then you and I are friends forever. + But if you say my stuff is rotten, + You are forgiven and forgotten. + + Though, as the old hymn runs, I may not + Sing like the angels, speak like Paul; + Though on a golden lyre I play not, + As David played before King Saul; + Yet I consider this production + A gem of verbalesque construction. + + So, what your calling, or your bent, + If clergy or if laity, + Fall into line. I'll be content + And plume me on my gayety, + If of the human file and rank + I can make nine-tenths smile,—and thank. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PTOMAINE STREET + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + On a Pittsburgh block, where three generations ago might have been heard + Indian war-whoops—yes, and the next generation wore hoops, too—a + girl child stood, in evident relief, far below the murky gray of the + Pittsburgh sky. + </p> + <p> + She couldn't see an Indian, not even a cigar store one, and she wouldn't + have noticed him anyway, for she was shaking with laughter. + </p> + <p> + A breeze, which had hurried across from New York for the purpose, blew her + hat off, but she recked not, and only tautened her hair ribbon with an + involuntary jerk just in time to prevent that going too. + </p> + <p> + A girl on a Pittsburgh block; bibulous, plastic, young; drinking the air + in great gulps, as she would later drink life. + </p> + <p> + It is Warble Mildew, expelled from Public School, and carolling with + laughter. + </p> + <p> + She had only attended for four weeks and they had been altogether wasted. + In her class there were several better girls, many brighter, one prettier, + but none fatter. The schoolgirls marveled at the fatness of her legs when, + skirts well tucked up, they all waded in the brook. Every cell of her body + was plump and she had dimples in her wrists. + </p> + <p> + And cheeks, like: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A satin pincushion pink, + Before rude pins have touched it. +</pre> + <p> + Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice and + her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls—you + know, sort of ringolets. + </p> + <p> + In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was + more dressed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Expelled! + </p> + <p> + That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on in + broad strokes—in great splashes—in slathers. + </p> + <p> + Expelled! And she had scarce dared hope for such a thing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To sound the humor of Warble. + </p> + <p> + She hated school. Books, restraint, routine, scratching slate pencils, gum + under desks, smells—all the set up palette of the schoolroom was not + to her a happy vehicle of self-expression. + </p> + <p> + Often, in hope of being sent home, she had let a rosy tongue-tip protrude + from screwed up red lips at teacher, but it had gone unpunished. + </p> + <p> + And now— + </p> + <p> + Now, rocking in triumphant, glorious mirth, her plump shoulders hunched in + very ecstasy, the child was on the peak! + </p> + <p> + Expelled! Oh, gee! + </p> + <p> + And all because she had put a caterpillar down Pearl Jane Tuttle's back. + One little, measly caterpillar. + </p> + <p> + Pearl Jane had sat right in front of her. + </p> + <p> + A loose neckband round a scrawny neck. + </p> + <p> + And when Pearl Jane wiggled, a space of neck between two thin, tight black + pigtails—a consequent safe-deposit that was fairly crying out to + have something dropped down it. + </p> + <p> + A caterpillar mooching along the schoolroom aisle—clearly sent by + Providence. + </p> + <p> + Helpless in the grip of an irresistible subconscious complex, Warble + scoops up the caterpillar and in an instant has fed him into the gaping + maw at the back of that loose gingham neckband. + </p> + <p> + Gr-r-r-r-rh! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That, then, is why Warble stood in such evident relief on the Pittsburgh + block. + </p> + <p> + Expelled! The world was hers! + </p> + <p> + It had always been hers, to be sure, but it was now getting bigger and + more hers every minute. + </p> + <p> + The very first day she went to school, a little boy said to her: + </p> + <p> + “Do you like me?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Warble. + </p> + <p> + The little boy gave her all his candy and his red balloon. + </p> + <p> + So you see, she had a way—and got away with it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Warble was an orphan. She had a paprika-seasoned sister, married to a + chiropodist, in Oshkosh. But for all that, she planned to earn her own + living. + </p> + <p> + And she had an ambition. At present beyond her grasp, yet so sure was she + of its ultimate attainment, that she shaped her entire cosmic + consciousness toward that end. Her ambition was not unique, perhaps not + unattainable. It had been achieved by others with seemingly little effort + and less skill; and though as yet, merely a radiant hope, Warble was + determined that some day she would gain her goal. + </p> + <p> + Her ambition was to get married. Her sister had; her mother had; she + politely assumed her grandmother had. + </p> + <p> + She would. + </p> + <p> + Often she imagined herself the heroine of delightful scenes she watched at + the cinema. She loved the slow unwinding of the story on the screen, but + when engaged with her imagination she hurried it on in haste to reach the + final close-up. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It was at no one's advice, but because of her own inner yearnings that + Warble took a job as waitress in a Bairns' Restaurant. + </p> + <p> + She reveled in the white tiles, the white gloss paint, the eternal + clearing-up and the clatter of flatware. She loved the flatware—it + always made her think of a wedding—sometimes of her own. + </p> + <p> + She adored the white-capped King Alfred baking his cakes in the window, + but merely as a fixture, as she adored the mute stacks of clean plates and + the piles of pathetic little serviettes. + </p> + <p> + In a more intimate and personal way she adored the pork and beans, the ham + and eggs, the corned beef and cabbage, and—importantly—the + gentle, easy-going puddings and cup custards. These things delighted her + soul and dimpled her body. + </p> + <p> + She was proud of her fellow-waitresses, proud of their aspirations (the + same as her own). + </p> + <p> + Having exceptional opportunity, Warble learned much of culinary art and + architecture, at least she became grounded in elementary alimentary + science. + </p> + <p> + She had little notebooks filled with rules for Parisian pastry, Hindu + recipes for curry; foreign dishes with modern American improvements. + </p> + <p> + Joyously she learned to make custard pie. This, as the tumultous future + proved, was indicative. + </p> + <p> + Only the little smiling gods of circumstance, wickedly winking at one + another, knew that when Warble whipped cream and beat eggs, she laid the + corner stone of a waiting Destiny, known as yet but to the blinking stars + above the murky Pittsburgh sky. + </p> + <p> + She was extravagant as to shoes and diet; and, on the whole, she felt that + she was living. + </p> + <p> + She was not mistaken. + </p> + <p> + She went to dances, but though sometimes she toddled a bit, mostly she sat + out or tucked in. + </p> + <p> + During her three years as a waitress several customers looked at her with + interest though without much principle. + </p> + <p> + The president of a well-known bank, the proprietor of a folding-bed + concern, a retired plumber, a Divinity student and a ticket-chopper. + </p> + <p> + None of these made her bat an eyelash. + </p> + <p> + For months no male came up for air. Then, the restaurant door swung back + on its noiseless check and spring, and in walked Big Bill Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + The Petticoats were one of the oldest and pride-fullest of New England + families. So that settles the status of the Petticoats. A couple of them + came over in the <i>Mayflower</i>, with the highboys and cradles and + things, and they founded the branch of Connecticut Petticoats—than + which, of course, there is nothing more so. + </p> + <p> + Of course, the Petticoats were not in the very upper circles of society, + not in the Dress Circle, so to speak, but they formed a very necessary + foundation, they stood for propriety and decency, and the Petticoats were + stiff enough to stand alone. + </p> + <p> + Another fine old New England family, the Cottons. + </p> + <p> + Intermarriage linked the two, and the Cotton-Petticoats crowded all other + ancient and honorable names off the map of Connecticut and nodded + condescendingly to the Saltonwells and Hallistalls. Abbotts and Cabots + tried to patronize them, but the plain unruffled Cotton-Petticoats held + their peace and their position. + </p> + <p> + The present scion, Dr. Petticoat, was called Big Bill, not because of his + name or stature, but because of the size of his bills. He presented them + quarterly, and though his medicine was optional—the patient could + take it or leave it—the bills had to be paid. + </p> + <p> + Wherefore Dr. Petticoat was at the head of his profession financially. + Also by reputation and achievement, for he had the big idea. + </p> + <p> + He was a specialist, and, better yet, a specialist in Ptomaine Poisoning. + </p> + <p> + Rigidly did he adhere to his chosen line, never swerving to right or left. + People might die on one side of him from water on the brain and on the + other side from water on the palate, not a prescription could they get out + of Big Bill Petticoat unless they could put up unmistakable symptoms of + ptomaine poisoning. + </p> + <p> + And he was famous. People brought their ptomaines to him from the far + places, his patients included the idlest rich, the bloatedest aristocrats, + the most profitable of the profiteers. His Big Bill system worked well, + and he was rich beyond the most Freudian dreams of avarice. + </p> + <p> + As to appearance, Petticoat was very pretty, with that fresh rosy beauty + that is so attractive. His walnut hair was fine and silky, but a permanent + wave made it fuzz forth in a bushy crinkle that was distractingly lovely. + His tweezed eyebrows were arched to a perfect span and his finger nails + showed a piano polish. + </p> + <p> + His features were cold-chiseled and his coloring was exquisite. In fact, + his coloring was too good to be true, and no wonder, for it came out of a + very modern and up-to-date six-cylinder makeup box. + </p> + <p> + His lips looked as if they were used to giving orders in restaurants, and + he wore clothes which you could never quite forget. + </p> + <p> + Warble edged toward the stranger, and murmured nothing in particular, but + somehow he drifted into the last and only vacant seat at her table. + </p> + <p> + She whisked him a 2 x 2 napkin, dumped a clatter of flatware at him, and + stood, awaiting his order. + </p> + <p> + The pause becoming lengthy, she murmured with her engaging smile, “Whatcha + want to eat?” + </p> + <p> + “Pleased to eat you,” he responded, looking at her as though she was an + agreeable discovery. + </p> + <p> + Small wonder, for Warble was so peachy and creamy, so sweet and delectable + that she was a far more appetizing sight than most viands are. She smiled + again—engagingly this time, too. + </p> + <p> + Thus in the Painted Vale of Huneker, Vamp and Victim beguiled the hours. + Thus, and not in treacled cadences, intrigued Mariar and Sir Thomas in the + back alley. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it here?” asked the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Yop. But sometimes I feel wasted—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't look wasted—” + </p> + <p> + “No—” after a hasty glance in the wall mirror. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you get sick of the sight of food?” + </p> + <p> + “Here, oh, no! I don't know any lovelier sight than our kitchens—yes, + yes, sir, I'll get your pied frotatoes at oneth.” + </p> + <p> + When Warble was a bit frustrated or embarrassed, she often inverted her + initials and lisped. It was one of her ways. + </p> + <p> + The other clients at her table had no intention of being neglected while + their Pickfordian waitress smiled engagingly on a newcomer. + </p> + <p> + It was the iceman who had hollered. He seemed to be merely a red-faced + inanimate object, that worked by strange and compound levers. + </p> + <p> + Next him was a hat-check girl, a queenly person who communed with + something set in the lid of her vanity case, and fed on chicken à la king. + </p> + <p> + Then there was a newsboy, whose all-observant eyes darted about + everywhere, the while he absorbed baked beans and ketchup. + </p> + <p> + An old maid shopper. She merely brooded over her worn and pencil-scored + memorandum, and muttered of fringe and buttons as she spilled tea on her + samples of Navy blue foulard. + </p> + <p> + A blind man. Of no interest save that he had a calm and gentle demeanor + and was the only one who didn't spill things. His face wore a grieved but + resigned look, as if something had died in his scrambled eggs. The iceman, + who had the hard, set jaw of a prize fighter was successfully eating + steak, and he welcomed the incoming fried potatoes, as one greets a new + instalment of a serial. + </p> + <p> + It was a fat and pink and lovely Warble who at last trotted back with + Petticoat's order. + </p> + <p> + The great specialist had an unbridled passion for pie, and throwing + restraint to the winds he had ordered three kinds. The wedges Warble + brought were the very widest she could wheedle from the head pie-cutter—and + Warble was some wheedler, especially when she coaxed prettily for a big + pieth of cuthtard. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat looked at her again as she came, pie-laden. + </p> + <p> + Her cap was a bit askew, but her eyes weren't. In her white linen dress + and apron and white cap, her little pink face looked to Petticoat's + appraising glance like a postage stamp on an expanse of white linen + envelope. + </p> + <p> + Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put + his foot in it. Yet he did. + </p> + <p> + “May I see you again sometime?” he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's + ogling and the iceman's cold stare. + </p> + <p> + Warble made a face at him. It was one of her ways. + </p> + <p> + “What's your address?” he asked. “You can ask the Boss—if you really + want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Want to know! Say, you waitress!” + </p> + <p> + Of the love-making of Warble and Big Bill Petticoat there is nothing to be + reported which may not be read in any Satevepost serial, which may not be + heard at any summer resort, in any winter garden. They were zoology and + history. Their speech was free silver and their silence was golden. + </p> + <p> + It was a non-stop courtship. All the plump beauty of youth and all the + assured complacence of a well-to-do married man kept them up in the air. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat wasn't a married man, but he had their technique. + </p> + <p> + They took a walk, and followed a roundabout way. Then they sat on a bank, + and his arm followed a roundabout way. + </p> + <p> + She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin frock + and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink roses, and + roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat was charmed. + </p> + <p> + “Golly, but I love you, Warble!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but she touched the upper edge of the wallet in his + breast pocket with an exploring gesture. + </p> + <p> + “You think I'm too darn aesthetic! Well, you're not, and so we ought to + mate. We're complementary to one another, like air and sunshine or light + and shade.” + </p> + <p> + “Or pork and beans, or pie and cheese.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, or like stout and porter—I'll be the porter, oh—what's + the use of talking? Let my lips talk to you!” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her cheek, imprinting thereon a Cupid's bow, by reason of his + own addiction to the lipstick. + </p> + <p> + Warble rubbed it off with the back of her hand, and said, “Oh, pleathe—pleathe.” + </p> + <p> + She wondered if she ought to have said thank you, but it was only a + drifting thought and she turned the other cheek. Then she smiled her + engaging smile and they were engaged. + </p> + <p> + Later in the game, she said, with pretty diffidence, “I would like to thee + Butterfly Thenter.” And she blushed like the inside of those pink meat + melons. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it!” and Petticoat produced a pile of Sunday Picture Supplements. + </p> + <p> + Her cheek nested in his permanent wave, Warble studied the pictures. + </p> + <p> + They were the last word in artistic architecture. Truly, Butterfly Center, + where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless Town and + Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching trees, sublimated + houses, glorified shops—it seemed to Warble like a flitter-work + Christmas card from the drug-store. + </p> + <p> + “How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?” he jollied + her. + </p> + <p> + “It might be—a lark—” she dubioused. + </p> + <p> + “But here's the picture!” and proudly he exhibited a full length view of + his own home. + </p> + <p> + “Ptomaine Haul,” he exploited, proudly. “Built every inch of it from the + busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's the + sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now—he has a corking + château—French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens—she has a + Georgian shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most + profitable patients—sick all the time.” + </p> + <p> + Warble studied the pictures. + </p> + <p> + “What expensive people,” she said, “dear—so dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come on, + Warble, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” she murmured, from his coat pocket, “Sweet, so sweet.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. A + soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz + awnings of the Butterfly Center station. + </p> + <p> + A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit. + </p> + <p> + From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening spaces + and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate. + </p> + <p> + It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled. + </p> + <p> + The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped, rose-cheeked + girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she looked about. + </p> + <p> + About what? + </p> + <p> + About eighteen. + </p> + <p> + They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble. + </p> + <p> + They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous loving. + </p> + <p> + It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how + hungry she could be even on a wedding trip. + </p> + <p> + Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist and a + pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their home town. People + were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen them before. But these + were her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn—and, they + didn't seem to need it. + </p> + <p> + They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that there is + no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris. + </p> + <p> + But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station were + hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and + physically, literally butterflies. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't there any way of waking them up?” she begged of Petticoat, grabbing + his arm and shaking him. + </p> + <p> + “These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy.” + </p> + <p> + “But they're so smug—no, that isn't what I mean. They're so + stick-in-the-mud.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a + woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff and + mischief.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all down + here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you behave + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yop.” + </p> + <p> + She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with them + all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like Coney + Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls. + </p> + <p> + She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, embracing + arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they were taking + her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pleathe—pleathe,” she lisped. + </p> + <p> + In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled + white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink calf, + Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As soft as young, + As gay as soft, +</pre> + <p> + and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her. + </p> + <p> + Not so the remainder of the citizens. + </p> + <p> + One of the men was yelling at Petticoat: + </p> + <p> + “Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours—I'll tote the bride-person + you've got there—with joy and gladness.” Warble looked at the + yeller. + </p> + <p> + “Can't quite place me, chick, can you?” he grinned at her. “Well I'm only + old Goldwin Leathersham—no use for me in the world but to spend + money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing—step up + here, Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than she looks, Mrs. + Petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I'm not,” Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, “I couldn't be—nobody + could be!” + </p> + <p> + She came running—a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of + expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a lavish + smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away from and + through Warble, yet she saw her. + </p> + <p> + “So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby,” she chirruped. “You're going to + love us all, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile. + </p> + <p> + “You bet she'll love us,” declared Leathersham, “she'll make the world go + round! Hello, Little One,” he turned to pat the cheek of a white-haired, + red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, stood by, listening in. + “This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs. Charity Givens—noted + for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads all Donation Lists, and she's + going to start a rest cure where your husband's unsuccessful cases may die + in peace. And here's one of the cases. Hello, Iva Payne!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily—a + Burne-Jones type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass + window to rest her head against. + </p> + <p> + “Are you really Bill's wife?” she asked, a little disinterestedly, of + Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” said Warble, and made a face at her. + </p> + <p> + “How quaint,” said Iva. + </p> + <p> + “Whoopee, Baby! Here we are,” and Petticoat rescued his bride from the + middle of a crowd and yanked her toward his car. + </p> + <p> + The car was a museum piece, and as Warble caromed into its cushions she + felt that her lines had fallen in pleasant places. + </p> + <p> + That was the way Fate came to Warble. In big fat chunks, in slathers. + Unexpected, sudden, inescapable—that's Fate all over. + </p> + <p> + “I shall like Mr. Leathersham—I shall call him Goldie. They're all + nice and friendly—the men. But this town! Oh, my Heavens! This Jewel + Casket—this Treasure Table! I can't live through it! This Floating + Island of a Tipsy Charlotte!” Her husband nudged her. “You look like you + had a pain,” he said; “Scared? I don't expect you to fit in at first. You + have to get eased into things. It's different from Pittsburgh. But you'll + come to like it—love is so free here, and the smartest people on + earth.” + </p> + <p> + She winked at him. “I love you for your misunderstanding. I'm just + dog-tired. And too many chocolates. Give me a rest, dear. I'm all in from + wear sheeriness.” + </p> + <p> + She laid her feet in his lap and snuggled into the corner of the + pearl-colored upholstery. + </p> + <p> + She was ready for her new home, beautiful, celebrated Ptomaine Haul. + Petticoat told her that his mother had been living with him, but had fled + incontinently on hearing a description of Warble. + </p> + <p> + The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a + corner and stopped under the <i>porte cochère</i> of a great house set in + the midst of a landscape. + </p> + <p> + Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves. + </p> + <p> + A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great + porch, and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield. + </p> + <p> + A great hall—at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the + right, a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride. + </p> + <p> + “You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is—in case you + care to rebuild or redecorate.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a sweet home—” she was touched by his indifference. “So + artistic.” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, carelessly, + “Yes, home is where the art is,” and let it go at that. + </p> + <p> + In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and + magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller + skates. + </p> + <p> + As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, she + quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth. + </p> + <p> + She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had realized + her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the final + close-up. + </p> + <p> + What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt, + and admire his rich and expensive clothing. + </p> + <p> + “Dear—so dear—” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + “The Leathershams are giving a ball for us to-night,” Petticoat said, + casually, as he powdered his nose in the recesses of his triplicate + mirror. + </p> + <p> + “A ball?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mean a dance—I mean—er—well, what you'd + call a sociable, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ain't we got fun!” + </p> + <p> + “And, I say, Warble, I've got to chase a patient now; can you hike about a + bit by yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Course I can. Who's your patient?” + </p> + <p> + “Avery Goodman—the rector of St. Judas' church. He will eat terrapin + made out of—you know what. And so, he's all tied up in knots with + ptomaine poisoning and I've got to straighten him out. It means a lot to + us, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I know; skittle.” + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Warble proceeded systematically to examine the interior of + Ptomaine Haul. She gazed about her own bedroom and a small part of its + exquisite beauty dawned upon her. It was an exact copy of Marie + Antoinette's and the delicately carved furniture and pale blue upholstery + and hangings harmonized with the painted domed ceiling and paneled walls. + </p> + <p> + The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as + Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to the + embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole. + </p> + <p> + The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets, such + as Warble had not smelled since before the war. + </p> + <p> + “Can you beat it,” she groaned. “How can I live with doodads like this?” + She saw the furniture as a circle of hungry restaurant customers ready to + eat her up. She kicked the dozen lace pillows off the head of the bed. + </p> + <p> + “No utility anywhere,” she cried. “Everything futile, inutile, brutal! I + hate it! I hate it! Why did I ever—” + </p> + <p> + And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled Petticoat—not + one of those that Oliver Herford so pathetically dubbed “the short and + simple flannels of the poor.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, she was now a Petticoat—one of the aristocratic + Cotton-Petticoats, washable, to be sure, but a dressy Frenchy Petticoat, + and as such she must take her place on the family clothesline. + </p> + <p> + She drifted from oriel window to casement, and on to a great becurtained + and becushioned bay, and looked out on the outlook. + </p> + <p> + She saw gardens like the Tuileries and Tuilerums, soft, shining pools, + little skittering fountains, marble Cupids and gay-tinted flowers. This + was the scene for her to look down upon and live up to. + </p> + <p> + “I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon! Am I sick?... Good + Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! I'd hate it—I'd be scared to + death! Some day—but, please, kind Fate, not now! I don't want to go + down now with ptomaine poisoning! Not till after I've had my dinner! I'm + going out for a walk.” + </p> + <p> + When Warble had plodded along for six hours, she had pretty well done up + the town. + </p> + <p> + Ptomaine Street, which took its name from her husband's own residence, was + a wide, leafy avenue with a double row of fine old trees on each side. + They were Lebbek trees, and the whole arrangement was patterned after the + avenue which Josephine built for Napoleon, out to the Mena House. + </p> + <p> + She passed the homes of the most respectable citizens. Often they were set + back from the road, and the box hedges or tall iron fences prevented her + from seeing the houses. But she saw enough and sped on to the more + interesting business and shopping section of Butterfly Center. + </p> + <p> + She passed Ariel Inn, the hotel being like a Swiss Chalet, perched on some + convenient rocks that rose to a height above street level. A few fairly + nimble chamois were leaping over these rocks and Warble heard a fairy-like + chime of bells as afternoon tea was announced. + </p> + <p> + A man in an artist's smock sauntered across the street. A palette on one + thumb, he scratched his chin with the other. A hearse, its long box filled + with somebody, crawled down the block. A dainty Sedan with a woman's idle + face at its window wafted by. From a Greek Temple came the sound of + Interpretative Dancing, and the applause of perfunctory hands. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to elope. Her own ideas of utility, efficiency, and economy + were being shattered—broken in pieces like a potter's vessel. Her + sense of proportion, her instinct for relative values, her abhorrence of + waste motion, her inborn system and method, all were swept away as a thief + in the night. Could she reform this giddy whirl? Could she bring chaos out + of cosmos? Was her own ego sufficient to egg her on in her chosen work? + </p> + <p> + She haed her doots. + </p> + <p> + She maundered down the street on one side—back on the other. + </p> + <p> + Dudie's Drug-store was like unto a Turkish Mosque. Minaret and pinnaret, + battlement and shuttle-door, it was a perfect drug-store, nobly planned. + The long flight of steps leading up to its ptortal was a masterpiece in + the step line. + </p> + <p> + Inside, the Soda Pagoda was a joy of temple bells and soft, sweet drinks, + while at the prescription counter, the line formed on the right, to get + Dr. Petticoat's prescriptions filled for their ptomaines. + </p> + <p> + A Moldavian Incense Shop was the barber's; a half-timbered house sold + English-built clothes; a brick affair of Georgian influences and splendid + lines, housed the hardware needed by the Butterflies, and the milliner's + was a replica of the pyramid of Cestus. + </p> + <p> + The bank was the Vatican, with Swiss guards in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + Perpetual waste motion! In all the town not one building that connoted to + Warble the apotheosis of efficiency shown by the King Alfred tossing cakes + in the window of Bairns' Restaurant. Not a dozen buildings that even + suggested use in addition to their beauty. + </p> + <p> + And the street was cluttered with trees in tubs, window boxes, sudden + little fountains or statues; gilded wicker birdcages on tall poles—songs + issuing therefrom. + </p> + <p> + Arbors, covered with pink Dorothy Perkinses, here and there by the + curbside. And, worst of all, people sitting idle in the arbors. Idle! + </p> + <p> + She wouldn't have cared so much, if the people had been busy—even + one of them. She fought herself. “I must be wrong. It can't be as silly as + it looks! It can't!” + </p> + <p> + She went home and found Petticoat waiting for her. + </p> + <p> + “Like the burg, eh? Great stuff, what? Not an eyesore inside the city + wall. Good work, I'll megaphone.” + </p> + <p> + Warble sat down in an easy-going chair—so easy, it slid across the + room with her, and collided with a life-sized Chinese lady of yellow + stone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Warble responded, “it's very uninteresting.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Goldwin Leathersham was a great Captain of Industry. In fact, he put the + dust in industry, or, at least, he took it out of it. He got it, anyway. + </p> + <p> + His home was an Aladdin's Palace, with a slight influence of Solomon's + Temple. Gold was his keynote, and he was never off the key. + </p> + <p> + When our Petticoats arrived at the party, they were met by gold-laced + footmen, who whisked them into shape and passed them along. + </p> + <p> + Warble found herself in a white and gold salon, so vast, that she felt + like a goldfish out of water. The place looked as if Joseph Urban had + designed it after he had died and gone to Golconda. Whatever wasn't white + was gold, and the other way round. The gold piano had only white keys, and + the draperies were cloth of gold with bullion fringe. All real, too—no + rolled or plated stuff. + </p> + <p> + A huge coat-of-arms in a gold frame announced that Mr. Leathersham was + descended from the Gold Digger Indians, a noble ancestry indeed; and it + was no secret that his wife had played in “The Gold-diggers,” during its + second decade run. + </p> + <p> + Marigold Leathersham was a charming hostess, and greeted Warble with a + shriek of welcome. “You duck,” she cried; “how heavenly of you to dress so + well.” + </p> + <p> + Warble was simply attired in a white pussy-willow silk underslip. In her + haste and excitement she had forgotten to add the gown meant to go over + it, and as she wore no jewels save the chased gold lingerie clasps at her + shoulders, the result was a simplicity as charming as it was + unintentional. + </p> + <p> + And so she made a hit. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble; a hit—a social success—and + all because she forgot to put on her frock. + </p> + <p> + She mingled with the glittering throng of gilded youth, of golden lads and + girls, of gilt-edged married people, and found herself in the arms of + Goldwin Leathersham, her host. + </p> + <p> + “Here comes the bride,” he shouted, as he piloted her about and introduced + everybody to her. + </p> + <p> + “This demure little beauty,” he said, “is Daisy Snow. Note her sweet, pure + face and wide-eyed, innocent gaze.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all so new—so wonderful—” Miss Snow breathed, “I'm a + débutante, you know, and I have scarcely butterflied out of my chrysalis + yet. How splendid the Leathershams are. He has a heart of gold. Oh, he is + such a good man, he says his life motto is the Golden Rule.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mrs. Leathersham?” asked Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Marigold? Oh, yes, she's as good as gold, too. We're firm friends.” + </p> + <p> + Warble was agog to mingle, so she moved on. + </p> + <p> + Le Grand Paynter, a celebrated Cubic artist, fascinated her with his + flowing locks, flowing tie and marvelous flow of conversation. He asked to + paint her as a Semi-nude Descending a Ladder, but she only said she must + refer him to her Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + Freeman Scattergood, the well-known philanthropist was chatting with Mrs. + Charity Givens, who was the champion Subscription List Header. Many had + tried to oust her from this enviable position but without success. Near + them stood Avery Goodman, the rector, and he was deeply engaged in a + flirtation with Miss May Young, one of his choir girls. + </p> + <p> + Manley Knight, a returned soldier, was resplendent with a Croix de Guerre, + a Hot Cross Bun and many other Noughts and Crosses. + </p> + <p> + Warble fingered them in her light way. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't he splendid!” babbled Daisy Snow the <i>ingénue</i>; “Oh, how + wonderful to offer one's life for glory! You can fairly see the heroism + bubble out of his eyes!” + </p> + <p> + “How you admire him!” said Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he doesn't care for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not specially,” admitted Manley Knight. “Yes,” Daisy said. “He thinks me + too ignorant and unsophisticated—and I am. Now, there's Lotta Munn, + the heiress—she's more in his line. But Ernest Swayne is devoted to + Lotta. I think it will be a real love match—like the Trues.” + </p> + <p> + “The Trues?” asked Warble, politely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” and she glanced toward a very devoted looking pair sitting apart + from the rest, on a small divan. “They're wonderful! Herman True is the + most marvelous husband you ever saw. He never speaks to anyone but his + wife. And she's just the same. She was Faith Loveman, you know. And + they've been married two years and are still honeymoon lovers! Ah, what a + fate!” + </p> + <p> + Daisy sighed, a sweet little-girly sigh, and blushed like a slice of cold + boiled ham. + </p> + <p> + But this Who's Whosing was interrupted by a footman with a tray of + cocktails. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow refused, of course, as became a débutante so did Judge + Drinkwater, who stood near by, frowning upon the scene, he being a + Prohibitionist. + </p> + <p> + A sickly looking lady next to him achieved several, and Warble asked Daisy + who she might be. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's Iva Payne—you met her, you know. She's very delicate, a + semi-invalid, under the care of specialists all the time. I don't exactly + know what her malady is, but it's something very interesting to the + doctors. There's scarcely anything she can eat—I believe she brings + her own specially prepared food to parties. + </p> + <p> + “She seems to relish the cock-a-whoops all right,” Warble commented. + </p> + <p> + “I understand the doctors prescribe stimulants for her—she is not at + all strong. They give her artificial strength, she says.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she seems to be strong for 'em. Don't you take any?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no! I'm a débutante. And mother says she wants to be with me when I + take my first cocktail and smoke my first cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear girl, Daisy, so fresh and unspoiled! Her mother is one of a + thousand.” + </p> + <p> + This from Manley Knight, who constituted himself Daisy's proxy in the + matter of cocktails and drank all that would have been Daisy's had her + mother permitted. + </p> + <p> + Goldwin Leathersham seemed to be acting as proxy for some débutante also, + for he seemed to feel pretty bobbish, but Warble was only slightly + interested in the whole matter. + </p> + <p> + She rolled her Wedgwooden eyes about, hoping the horde would be herded + toward the dining-room. But no such luck. + </p> + <p> + Instead they drifted in the opposite direction and, swept along with the + crowd, Warble found herself in one of a serried series of gilt chairs, + facing a platform as large as a theater stage. + </p> + <p> + An erudite looking man who appeared on the platform received tumultous + applause. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” Warble whispered to her neighbor, who chanced to be Avery + Goodman, “an impersonator?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no; it's Wunstone, the great scientist—rants on Fourth Avenue + dimensions, or something like that.” + </p> + <p> + In a tone of forceful mildness the speaker began: “It must be conceded + that, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all + insensate communication, that a psychic moment may or may not, in + accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, + become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a + trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, no + feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable demand + of endurance. + </p> + <p> + “Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the investiture + of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in accordance with + what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, to become warily + regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof of a smouldering + discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a trenchant humor, it + may or may not be warily regarded. + </p> + <p> + “Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to psychic + action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of disregarded + symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power of doubt, + considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our argument as + faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the corollary reasoning + must be that no premise is or may be capable of such conclusion as will + render it sublunary to its agreed parallel. + </p> + <p> + “But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution. + </p> + <p> + “We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is + impossible in connection with neo-psychology.” + </p> + <p> + There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan + soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for + Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones. + </p> + <p> + Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but + the music went inexorably on. + </p> + <p> + It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet. + </p> + <p> + This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the + applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of his + beard. + </p> + <p> + By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever and + she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy Snow, + and it was not Warble's way to cut in. + </p> + <p> + In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions from + the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, and + Warble went back to sleep. + </p> + <p> + There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was cleared + for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a small + glass of punch and a wafer to each. + </p> + <p> + Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper + buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys. + </p> + <p> + Warble and Petticoat reached home. + </p> + <p> + “Howja like 'em?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so hungry,” she wailed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It isn't + done. Watch Iva Payne—she doesn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill—” Warble began to cry. “I want to go back to the + restaurant—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no—now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're + a smart crowd—” + </p> + <p> + Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled up + her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and waited + to be kissed. + </p> + <p> + She was. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a + built-in English bed, with gray draperies. + </p> + <p> + Through a cloth of silver portiére, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. + Oxidized silver plumbing exposure. + </p> + <p> + No pictures on the walls, save one—a barbaric Russian panel by + Larrovitch. + </p> + <p> + At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk—all gray. + </p> + <p> + A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon it + and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the quarrel. + </p> + <p> + “They took to you,” he said, “you went like hot cakes!” + </p> + <p> + It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging + smile, wheedled, “Pleathe, pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Petticoat said, inexorably, “if you eat all the time you'll get to + look like that soprano. Howja like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're my—well, + you're my soulmate.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my + appetite—you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about his + neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Warble's own maid was named Beer. + </p> + <p> + A French thing—so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied + with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that + displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris reported + skirts going up or down as the case might be. + </p> + <p> + A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, + and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll. + </p> + <p> + Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it impossible. + Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard sauce off a hot + apple dumpling. + </p> + <p> + “Do you get enough to eat, Beer?” her mistress asked her. + </p> + <p> + “Wee, maddum,” the maid replied, in her pretty War French. “I eat but a + small.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't drop to pieces, that's all,” warned Warble. As to personal + care and adornment the hitherto neglected education of Warble Petticoat + was in Beer's hands. And she handed it out with unstinted lavishness. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble; in slathers—in big fat + chunks. In avalanches and rushing torrents. + </p> + <p> + Beer engineered all her new wardrobe, and received sealed proposals for + its construction. + </p> + <p> + Beer taught her the mysteries of the toilette table, and once initiated + into this entrancing art, Warble let herself go in the matter of cosmetics + and make-ups, and could scarce wait for Beer's afternoon out, to dabble + about by herself. + </p> + <p> + Beer taught her how to wear jewelry, and directed what pieces she should + ask Petticoat for next. + </p> + <p> + Altogether, Warble was trying out things—but carefully, as a good + housewife tries out lard. + </p> + <p> + And she was not yet certain as to the results. Environment has to reckon, + now and then with heredity. + </p> + <p> + Warble, at soul, all for utility, economy, diligence and efficiency, + transplated to Butterfly Center, with its keynote of careless idleness, + waste motion and extravagance. + </p> + <p> + One must win out. Had she a Dempsey of a heredity against a Carpentier of + an environment? Or was it the other way round? + </p> + <p> + She planned to reform Butterfly Center, to do away with the street + statues, the useless patches of flowers; tear down and rebuild the + ridiculous classic architecture of many of the shops and substitute good + solid livable houses for the castles and châteaux, the barracks and + bungalows that adorned the residence section. + </p> + <p> + These reforms she meant to bring about shortly, but first, she must begin + with her home. + </p> + <p> + In her pride of being a Petticoat she loved every detail of Ptomaine Haul. + Yet she knew it did not express herself, it was not the keynote of her own + Warbling personality. + </p> + <p> + What to do. + </p> + <p> + She sat in her boudoir, its mauve walls and gold Japanese screens + backgrounding her plump prettiness, as she lolled on a gold brocade <i>chaise + longue</i>. + </p> + <p> + She glanced out at the peacocks strutting in the Italian garden and + listened to the rooks cawing in the cypresses between the marble urns on + the terrace steps. + </p> + <p> + It was a big proposition to change all that. To turn the bird sticks into + pruning hooks and the bird baths into plowshares. + </p> + <p> + Could she do it? + </p> + <p> + Doubtful. + </p> + <p> + She went out into the hall and looked over the rail of the great rotunda. + Rugs hung from the rail, as it might be a Turkish Monday. + </p> + <p> + Below, she could see the lake in the front hall, also she could glimpse + the armored bronze Petticoats guarding the entrance that led to the + corridor that led to the hall leading into the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + It was well nigh hopeless. + </p> + <p> + Warble sighed. Then she rang for Beer and ordered some French pastry and a + cup of chocolate. + </p> + <p> + Revived and revivified, Warble decided on a mad dash for reform. + </p> + <p> + Ordering Beer to dress her quickly, she did all she could to help, and + soon, in a daring combination of canary, black and coral, she was on her + way to the shops. + </p> + <p> + She achieved what is known as a utility box, and which is compounded of + matting and a few bamboo strips. + </p> + <p> + This she caused to be set up in her boudoir. + </p> + <p> + Came Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + No oral observations, but the next day an antique Florentine chest, carved + by Dante, replaced the box. + </p> + <p> + “Just as utile,” Bill remarked, “and a lot more expensive. Kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + That is the way the Petticoats of this world decree, and that is the way + the Warbles submit. + </p> + <p> + That Thursday afternoon she was in love with her husband. She toddled into + his room to talk to him. She was in pastel chiffon boudoir jambiéres + picked out with rosebuds. She sat, cross-legged, on one of his gray satin + floor pillows and looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat was just going out and he sat before the mirror, earnestly + adjusting a hair net over his permanent. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, <i>Fruit Mousse</i>,” he said, half absent-mindedly, as he went on + adjusting. + </p> + <p> + Big Bill Petticoat was far from being effeminate. He was found of + aesthetics and anaesthetics, and his chief interests in life were beauty + and his big bills. + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of beauty, if a thing isn't useful?” Warble would ask, and + Petticoat would reply, “What's the use of use, anyway? There's no use in + having anything that isn't beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + And as the house was under Petticoat rule, Big Bill won out. + </p> + <p> + “You must have a party, Warble,” Petticoat said, as he fitted a long, slim + cigarette into a long, slim holder. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather have a baby,” and she looked up at him inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Honest, Warbie, I can't afford it. I've lots of money, but we take a lot + of keeping ourselves, and to keep a baby means almost a whole extra + establishment. Let's wait till I've saved up a bit, or we have a windfall. + Leathersham owes me a small fortune for his cook's ptomaine cases—she's + always getting poisoned with her imported canned things—but Goldie's + slow pay, and too, I want to make a few improvements on the place. I'm + thinking of bringing over a Moorish Courtyard intact—nice, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “What's it good for?” demanded Warble. “We've done our courting, and + anyway—look here, Bill, there's only three things I can do. Have a + baby—” + </p> + <p> + “Cut it out, Warb; I haven't the means just now. And it might be twins.” + </p> + <p> + “That's so. Well, the second thing is to reform this town. It's going to + the dogs—to little, silly Pekes and Poms. I can save it, and correct + its ways and put it on a sound utilitarian basis.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't believe you could do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Can do. But the third trick is to flop over to their side and be like the + town people myself.” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat laughed outright. + </p> + <p> + “Nixy on that, Warble, my duck. You'd have to reduce.” + </p> + <p> + “I speck I should. Well, then the reform act for mine. I've got to do + something, Pet, to keep amused and interested.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said. Have a party.” + </p> + <p> + “I will. And it will be part of the reform. These people are too highbrow. + Too soulful. Too artistic—” + </p> + <p> + “Warble! How many times have I told you <i>never</i> to use that word! + Now, look here, if you want to play at reforming, go ahead, nobody will + interfere with you. But where'll you get time? You spend most of your + waking hours in slumber, and the rest, eating. You're a sweet, lovely, + cuddly thing, but if you keep on, some day you'll find you can't get your + kimono together.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll wear two. But, Bill, I'm not so big, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Warble up, and parading the room with a martial air. + </p> + <p> + “You're a perfect Bellona!” Petticoat said, smiling at her. + </p> + <p> + “A Bologna! Oh, you horrid thing! But that reminds me I haven't had + sausage lately. I must speak to cook. Now, about my party.” + </p> + <p> + “Have a good one while you're about it. I might import a Spanish Ballet—” + </p> + <p> + “You might do nothing of the sort! This is to be my party, and I shall run + it to suit myself.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Tutti Frutti; you have no subtlety or poetry in your soul—indeed, + I doubt if you have a soul—but you're a dear and a sweet—” + </p> + <p> + “Bill, I've an idea! Build bureaus right down to the floor and then collar + buttons can't roll under them!” + </p> + <p> + “Fine idea! Better patent it. Must go. Goodby.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute. Mrs. Holm Boddy is coming to see me to-day. What's she + like?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she's a hen-minded Hetty with cabriole legs. Don't bother with her + much. They're lower case people—tin pergola and pebble garden sort. + And early Victorian bathrooms. You won't like her—freeze her out.” + </p> + <p> + “All righty. Say—Billy dear—has you any choclums?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for little gourmands,” he took her in his arms. “I say, Warbie, you + promised to cut out sweets. Look here.” + </p> + <p> + He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning + ancestors looked down in painted disapproval. + </p> + <p> + They were all slender—wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a + fatty in the bunch. + </p> + <p> + Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care!” Warble exploded, angrily. “If you don't give me enough to + eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And you + needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care <i>that</i> for + them!” + </p> + <p> + She snapped a dimpled pink thumb and forefinger at the whole exhibit, made + a face at the skinniest one of all, and then sneaked casually into Bill's + arms. + </p> + <p> + “Nice, nice,” she cooed, patting his mastoid process. “Run along now, and + I'll plan my party.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “That Boddy woman,” remarked Beer, as she dressed Warble; “she is a pest—a + pill! Wait, Maddum, I beg you! I've only rouged one of your cheeks!” + </p> + <p> + “That's enough,” said Warble, inattentively, and she danced down stairs to + freeze out her caller. + </p> + <p> + “I've been meaning to come for some time,” Mrs. Holm Boddy said, “but I + thought I'd give you a chance to get a little used to your new grandeur. + Quite a change for you, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Warble, “it's rather a come down. I've always been very grand. + Tell me about yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm the old-fashioned wife and mother. Devoted to my home, and my + family. I deplore the modern tendency to neglect one's own fireside.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should think you'd be happier there than anywhere else.” + </p> + <p> + Warble gazed at her guest. She was a tall, angular woman, so gaunt that + her bones rattled. Warble wondered if Bill would really like her to be + like that. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am. My dear husband, my darling children—you ought to have a + lot of children, Mrs. Petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I shall, when we can afford it. My husband isn't very well off just + now, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “You live very extravagantly. Look at those rugs, now. Rugs cost + fearfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you have any?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. We don't waste money that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Bare floors?” + </p> + <p> + “No, carpets. More homey, you know. Nice Brussels in the parlor—real + Body Brussels—Bigelow—and in the bedrooms, Ingrain. Oh, the + hominess of a new-laid Ingrain carpet, with lots of fresh straw under it! + You acquainted with Avery Goodman, the Rector?” + </p> + <p> + “I've met him.” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid man-spiritual-minded and all that. Fine preacher, too. Very + soulful. I often sob right through his sermons. Better go hear him.” + </p> + <p> + “My husband is a busy man—we haven't time for church.” + </p> + <p> + “No, spose not. Doctors are kept on the jump. Specially specialists. And I + know your husband is busy. Say, is there any truth in the report that he + pays the grocers and delicatessen men to get—you know—doubtful + canned goods, and not too fresh sea foods and all that—so there'll + be more ptomaine cases?” + </p> + <p> + “What a good idea!” Warble cried. “I had not heard of it, but if Bill does + that he's more efficient than I thought him!” + </p> + <p> + “I spose he's terribly in love with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Bill? Oh, yes. We adore each other.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know. The Petticoats are all so thin—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a change is always pleasant.” Warble gave her engaging smile. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. That Daisy Snow now—she's so pretty <i>and</i> slender. Dr. + Petticoat seems mighty fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know what doctors are. Nice to everybody, of course. There's no + telling who'll have ptomaine poisoning next.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you can always tell that. It's sure to be Iva Payne. She's awful + attractive, too. You must be worried about your man, Mrs. Petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “I do worry a lot. It keeps my flesh down. Tell me more to worry about.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of + your own?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right.” + </p> + <p> + “You are! Why, where did your husband get you?” + </p> + <p> + “He got me out of a mail catalogue.” Warble made a face at her. “Must you + go, Mrs. Boddy?” she rose. “I won't ask you to come again, as I know how + you love your own home and fireside. Goodby.” + </p> + <p> + Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out + of the front door and slammed it after her. + </p> + <p> + “That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul,” she said, as she + went down to see the cook about the sausage. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her + party should be a success. + </p> + <p> + In the morning she interviewed the cook. + </p> + <p> + “You can spread yourself on the feast, François,” she said, “have any old + menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But especially I + want you to make for me one hundred custard pies.” + </p> + <p> + The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his + duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish. + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a crême paté?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard pie—see? + <i>Pie</i>! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! Get + out of my way, I'll make them myself!” + </p> + <p> + Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job + and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she + herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust. + </p> + <p> + Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen + custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows. + </p> + <p> + “Not to be served with the supper,” Warble warned the butler, “when I want + them brought in I'll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Beer dressed Warble for the party, Petticoat standing by and advising. + </p> + <p> + The gown was a few wisps of henna-colored chiffon which fitfully blew, + half concealed, half disclosed a scant slip of jade green satin. + </p> + <p> + Flesh-colored stockings, Petticoat decreed, and henna slippers with carved + jade buckles. + </p> + <p> + “Now, her hair—” he mused, leaning on his folded arms over the back + of a chair. + </p> + <p> + He walked slowly round Warble. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wopse it up anyway,” he said, “and tangle some jade beads in it. + She'll stand that.” + </p> + <p> + His orders were carried out and Beer clasped her hands in silent ecstasy + at the result of the combined efforts of herself and her master. + </p> + <p> + “Some day, Warble,” Bill said, “I'll teach you how to dress becomingly.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'll teach you how to undress becomingly,” said Beer, not wanting to + be outclassed in her own game. + </p> + <p> + Warble waved Petticoat out of the room, dismissed Beer with a simple “Get + out!” and then quickly flung off the clothes she wore and hopped into a + little frock of white organdie and cherries. + </p> + <p> + She wadded some hair over each ear, piled up the rest in a moppy coil and + crowned it with a wreath of cherries. + </p> + <p> + The party came. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” Warble thought, as she looked at the smart, bored crowd, + “have I got to bring these hifalutin creatures down to earth? I don't know + that I can make them laugh, but I'll give them a jolt!” + </p> + <p> + She did. + </p> + <p> + Her cherries bobbing, two long-stemmed ones held between her teeth, she + flew around like a hen with its head off. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” she explained, “it's a Mack Sennett party, everybody puts + things down everybody's back. Like this—and here are the things.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>would</i> dress as he pleased. + </p> + <p> + 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. They had to put them down the backs of the men + only, because the fashionably dressed ladies hadn't any backs to put them + down. You can't put an oyster down two crossed strings of pearls. + </p> + <p> + It caused great hilarity to see the Reverend Goodman standing on his head, + trying to lose a red-hot silver dollar; and Daisy Snow, whose débutante + frock was available for the purpose, wriggled beneath the tickling + crawling of a large but harmless spider. + </p> + <p> + Warble was almost in hysterics over the funny antics of Goldwin + Leathersham down whose loose and ample collar she had herself poured a + glass of water on two seidlitz powders. + </p> + <p> + “Next,” she cried, clapping her hands, “we'll have an artistic game. Here + it comes.” + </p> + <p> + Lackeys and minions brought in pails of kalsomine, of various tints, some + of pale pastel shades, others of deep rich hues. One was given to each + guest, and each was provided with a beautiful new whitewash brush. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” Warble explained, her blue eyes dimpling with delight, “you each + make a splash on the wall—a big, hit-or-miss splash. Then we each + try to evolve a lovely picture by few bold strokes.” + </p> + <p> + This was great fun. + </p> + <p> + Manley Knight, with a mighty splash of color that landed on a Fragonard + panel, had quite a good start for a “Storm at Sea.” He worked it up with + fine technique and you would have been surprised at the result. + </p> + <p> + Iva Payne took a splash from several different pails thereby achieving a + Cubist landscape. It was entitled “High Tide off the Three-mile Limit,” + and was a startling success. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow, timid little dear, made but a tiny daub and worked it up + carefully. + </p> + <p> + “That,” she said, “is a miniature of Big Bill.” + </p> + <p> + All in all, it was gay sport, and even Mrs. Charity Givens took part, + though she protested she was no artist and couldn't even draw a straight + line. + </p> + <p> + The next performance was a contest between Adam Goodsport and Avery + Goodman. + </p> + <p> + Bets were made on the two contestants before the betters knew what the + scrap was to be. + </p> + <p> + “It's a character sketch,” Warble explained. “Mr. Goodsport tries to + blacken Mr. Goodman's character, while the Rector tries to whiten Mr. + Goodsport's character.” + </p> + <p> + Avery Goodman was then presented with a bag of flour and Adam Goodsport + was handed a bag of soot. + </p> + <p> + They went at it hand over fist, and in a few moments the blacking and + whiting process was so complete that both were pronounced perfect + transformations and all bets were off. + </p> + <p> + Faces, hands and clothes were alike befloured and besooted, until Goodman + was a veritable Blackamoor while Adam Goodsport looked like a Marcelline. + </p> + <p> + A few eyebrows indicated a suspicion that Big Bill Petticoat's bride was a + Little Mischief, but nobody said anything about it. + </p> + <p> + “If I can only reform them,” Warble thought to herself, “if I can only + make them like and enjoy this innocent fun instead of wearing their poor + brains out over capitalled Art and Literature.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” she said, briskly, “we're going to play a game I learned in + Shanghai. All take off your shoes and stockings. No one excused—come + on—off with them.” + </p> + <p> + Beer and a few other maids came in to assist the ladies, the men were + properly valeted, and the barefooted crowd sat waiting further orders. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow made a remark about being a maiden with reluctant feet, but + nobody noticed it. + </p> + <p> + Several seemed rather relieved than otherwise at the condition imposed + upon them. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Warble, but before she could go further, Adam Goodsport butted + in with: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat—oh, please! Such an opportunity! May + never occur again! Oh, can't I—may I not—oh, dear lady, do say + yes—” + </p> + <p> + “Lordy, what do you want to do? Speak out, man!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, I am a solist—like a palmist you know—but as to + feet. I studied solistry in Asia Minor and I know it from the ground up. + Oh, please, Mrs. Petticoat, let me read your sole!” + </p> + <p> + “Do,” cried Warble, “love to have you.” + </p> + <p> + She plumped herself into a pillowed divan, and held her little pink feet + straight out in front of her. + </p> + <p> + Goodsport, sitting on a cushion at her feet, took one and scrutinized the + sole. + </p> + <p> + “The Solar system,” he began, “is interesting in the extreme. It was + invented by Solon, though Platoe also theorized on the immortality of the + sole. His ideas, however have been discarded by modern footmen. + </p> + <p> + “Locke, is his treatise On the Human Understanding, discusses the subject + fully and with many footnotes, and old Samuel Foote himself cast + footlights on the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, looky here,” Warble objected, “I won't have a lecture in my house! I + object to anything of an intellectural nature.” + </p> + <p> + “This has nothing to do with the intellect,” Adam assured her. “Quite the + reverse, now, you listen. It's really interesting. The palmist may claim + to read the true character from the lines of the hand, but it is only by + solistry that the real sole is laid bare and the character of a subject in + any walk of life is exposed. The lines of the sole are greatly indicative + of character, for all traits must draw the line somewhere. Now, Mrs. + Petticoat, this line extending from the Mount of Trilby to the outer side + of the sole is the life line. If that appears to be broken it indicates + future death. If more pronounced on one sole than the other, it implies + that the subject has one foot in the grave. You haven't, don't be alarmed. + Here is the headline, straight and continuous, showing a long and level + head.” + </p> + <p> + “Ouch,” remarked Warble, “you tickle. Try somebody else,” and she drew her + feet under her. + </p> + <p> + “Me,” exclaimed Daisy Snow, coming over and holding out her dainty right + foot. + </p> + <p> + “H'm,” said Goodsport. “This line running from the Mount of Cinderella to + the heel is the clothes line and denotes love of dress. This line crossing + it is the fish line and shows you are incapable of telling the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Daisy flounced away, mad, and Mrs. Charity Givens, with some trepidation, + offered her ample and generous foot for dissection. + </p> + <p> + “A thorough, broad understanding and a friendly footing toward all,” + declared the solist, “and no danger of misunderstanding. However, your + broken headline indicates pugnacity.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort!” she snapped at him, and waddled away. + </p> + <p> + Goldwin Leathersham, greatly interested, insisted on having his pedal + interpreted. + </p> + <p> + “Mount of Atalanta highly prominent,” said Goodsport, “that means you are + a runner, either for office or for pleasure. Here is a line meeting—that + indicates a railroad man. H'm. A well-developed football shows you have + been to college. You seem to be inclined to solemates—” + </p> + <p> + But Leathersham had taken to his heels. + </p> + <p> + “Please,” said Iva Payne, gracefully offering her long psychic foot for + perusal. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the poetic foot!” the soloist exclaimed. “There are two kinds of + poetic feet—the Iambic and the Trochaic. You have one of each. In + poetic feet the heels are often found in French forms. But poets are a + footloose class and are often found with lame and halting feet. You don't + seem to be a poet.” + </p> + <p> + “Never said I was,” retorted Iva, shortly, and Warble said, “Stop this + nonsense, it makes too much kicking. Now we're going to play the game I + learned in Buda Pesth.” + </p> + <p> + She led them to the picture gallery which had been prepared for the game + by having many sheets of fly-paper placed on the floor, sticky side up. + </p> + <p> + “It's Fly-paper Tag,” she said. + </p> + <p> + It <i>was</i> Fly-paper Tag—she was quite right. + </p> + <p> + “You're it!” screamed Mrs. Givens as she pushed the minister over onto a + sheet of fly-paper. + </p> + <p> + “It yourself,” shrieked Leathersham adroitly shoving a sheet where he saw + Mrs. Givens would light next. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Warble was certain she was a great reformer. + </p> + <p> + Yet would these reformed people stay reformed? + </p> + <p> + True, they were now in the spirit of her party, Mack Sennett himself + couldn't have asked a better interpretation of his own vital principles. + But had they come to realize that this after all was the real thing, the + true ideal? + </p> + <p> + Warble feared. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They were a stuck-up lot. The fly-paper had intrigued them all. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. Judge Drinkwater folded Daisy Snow's two little hands + together, then wrapped them tightly in fly-paper, and shook with laughter + to see her futile attempts to get free. + </p> + <p> + “Naughty man!” she cried, “to make poor little me so helpless!” With a + spring she flung her entangled hands over the Judge's head, and hung round + his neck like a pretty little millstone. + </p> + <p> + Warble relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired and very hungry. + </p> + <p> + But she was the stuff of which true reformers are made and Martin Luther + had nothing on her. + </p> + <p> + Then Beer came tripping in with a pile of varicolored garments which she + held up to view. + </p> + <p> + “These,” Warble announced, “are the real Mack Sennett costumes. They are + one-piece bathing suits, I got them from an importer of contraband goods. + You are to put them on in place of your clothes. And please forget that + you are Butterflies and turn into bathing beauties and champion swimmers.” + </p> + <p> + While they were shyly getting into the suits, she donned her own, a little + scalloped apron effect, with cross-strapped sandals, and a silk bandanna + knotted round her head. + </p> + <p> + She glanced about and saw Big Bill Petticoat beaming with proud glee at + his wife's social success, and looking lovely himself in a black satin + one-piece, with jet shoulder straps. + </p> + <p> + For a second Warble could see only Petticoat's pink cheeks and perfected + eyebrows. Then she shook off the spell and keyed up. + </p> + <p> + “We're going to have an obstacle race,” she announced, “all over the + house. You must follow me, wherever I go. I shall lead you a dance! And + then I shall come last to the lake in the front hall, and whoever is + nearest me there, will be rewarded.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + She turned away, sick at heart. + </p> + <p> + Why bother, her tortured soul cried out. Yet the irrepressible impulse of + reform egged her on and it was a perfectly good egg. + </p> + <p> + She flew past Petticoat, only pausing to shout, “Like it all, my tramp? + Yes, it <i>is</i> an expensive party.” + </p> + <p> + Then she led her followers a mad race. Sliding down banisters, squeezing + into dumb waiters; crawling under beds and out the other side; jumping in + and out again of bathtubs full of perfumed water. Out of windows, in at + scuttles. Through booby-traps of half-open doors, on the lintel of which + were perched pans full of live crabs or little boxes of mice. + </p> + <p> + On rushed the horde, Mrs. Givens panting from over exertion, Goldie + Leathersham limping because of a crab hanging to his great toe. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Wherefore Trymie's soft plop into the oily depths was of a ludicrous + nature. + </p> + <p> + Then the guests were allowed to resume their own clothes and supper was + announced. + </p> + <p> + Conversation turned to art matters, and Leathersham who was a collector of + many various rarities asked Petticoat how his new collection was + progressing. The collection was one of early American Pieplates. + </p> + <p> + “Doing well,” Big Bill answered. “I have just achieved a yellow earthen + John Adams, that is authentic and very rare. Except for my Barbara + Frietchie tin one, it is perhaps the gem of my collection.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” Leathersham exclaimed, interestedly, “may I see it?” Petticoat + summoned a lackey and two minions and sent them to his curio room to fetch + the plates. But they returned with the startling announcement that all the + pieplate collection had disappeared! + </p> + <p> + “Heavens and earth!” Petticoat cried. “Lock the doors, search the pockets! + Why, that collection is worth millions!” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” Warble inquired, seeing the hullaballoo. “Oh,” as she + was told, “I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and our + pieplates gave out.” + </p> + <p> + “Making a lot of pies?” Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold + Leathersharn murmured, “How quaint!” in a supercilious way. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” went on Warble, unperturbed. “Want to see 'em?” + </p> + <p> + They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the + pantry windows. + </p> + <p> + “Whoopee!” shouted Petticoat, “here's where I take the helm! Cut out the + rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest.” + </p> + <p> + It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with + this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their + terrible aestheticism at last? + </p> + <p> + Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over + the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. “Oh,” she cried, astounded. “I + wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just eating + what I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a dear,” Marigold Leathersham said to her. “I'm going to love you. + How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he does.” Warble stated. “At least, he says so.” + </p> + <p> + “He's a truthful man,” Marigold declared, “you'd know that just to look at + him. There's something in his face just now—” + </p> + <p> + “It's pie,” said Warble, “he's very fond of it.” + </p> + <p> + To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final + entertainment. + </p> + <p> + “Folks,” she said, “this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be + complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they chose + sides. + </p> + <p> + The party being thus divided, they bombarded each other with custard pies + after the manner of certain comedians, till there wasn't a round of + ammunition left. + </p> + <p> + Then Iva Payne said she felt sick and wanted to go home and of course just + for that they all had to go. + </p> + <p> + “The nicest party ever!” they chorused at parting. “So novel and <i>naïve</i>—so + quite entirely out of the ordinary.” + </p> + <p> + As the last pied guest disappeared she turned wearily to her Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, Warb,” he said, “you are sure one corker! You put 'em to + sleep all right! Now you've shown 'em how, you bet they won't go on having + their stupid highbrow intellectural old gatherings. Hop along to bed, + little tired Lollipop.” + </p> + <p> + His long lithe arms gathered her forcefully to him, and her irritation at + his strength was lost in her admiration of his grace and skill in + imparting affection. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + From <i>The Butterfly Centerpiece</i>: + </p> + <p> + The Mack Sennett party at the home of Dr. Bill Petticoat was a hundred per + cent success. Little Lady Petticoat is nobody's fool. She knows that a + lucky punch is her only chance. A short, swift hook, straight from the + shoulder. The pretty Warble is a perpetual promise of joy, yet she shows + symptoms of curvature of the soul—and it is, so far, a toss-up + whether she will have her passport <i>viséd</i> or be given the gate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The week after, the Leathershams gave a party. The gilt-chaired audience + listened to Sable Caviaro the new Russian violinist and Slubber D. + Gullion, who discoursed on the Current Trend of Current Bolshe Vikings. + </p> + <p> + The refreshing episode consisted of champagne and Saratoga chips. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + The Restless Sexteen was the record altitude of Butterfly Center. It was + the elect and select of the intellect; it was the whole show—the + very Wholly of Whollies. To belong to it was canonization. Though some of + its members also belonged to the Toddletopsis Club, it meant their leading + a double life. + </p> + <p> + The Restless Sexteen were mostly young married women with their husbands + as nonresident members. + </p> + <p> + They studied higher psychology and broader psychopathy. The wrestled with + and threw Einstein and let themselves dream again with Freud. + Psychoanalysis was their washpot, and over the fourth dimension did they + cast their shoes. + </p> + <p> + Their afternoon digest was held at Faith Loveman's and Warble went. + </p> + <p> + The Loveman home was an abstract bungalow, which showed rather plainly the + iron hand in the velvet glove influence of the Japanese. + </p> + <p> + The large light hall had a built-in abstract table, and on this was an + enormous bronze plaque which held a thin layer of water on which rested + one pansy. + </p> + <p> + Faith's devotion to the Doctrine of Elimination allowed nothing else in + the hall, but in the living room there were three whole pieces of + furniture besides, of course, the caterer's gilt chairs brought in to hold + the restless sex as they tried to rest from their restlessness. + </p> + <p> + Faith Loveman looked curiously at Warble. + </p> + <p> + “You can't be very restless,” she observed, “you'd be thinner.” + </p> + <p> + Warble smiled engagingly. + </p> + <p> + “I do want to be thinner,” she conciliated, “how can I?” + </p> + <p> + And, somehow, that started them all off. They restlessly gave advice, + recommended certain exercises, uncertain drugs and most unattractive + diets. + </p> + <p> + They told their own experiences, extolled or berated their masseuses, + scribbled addresses of corsetieres for one another, and in their interest + and restless excitement they forgot all about Warble and she wanted to go + home. + </p> + <p> + But she had her mission to perform, and she waited until they restlessly + changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + They discussed current plays and seemed to get out of them far more than + the author ever put in. They talked of a picture exhibit at the Gauguin + Galleries, but this was as Choctaw to Warble; not a word could she + understand. + </p> + <p> + “Are you of the cognoscenti?” asked Faith Loveman of Warble. “I know all + about art but I don't know what I like,” she returned, blushing prettily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we'll teach you that. That's what this club is for, to help us to + find ourselves, to give our restlessness an outlet to express the ego in + our cosmos and illumine the dark patches of our souls. We're riding the + pace that kills, living at the tension that snaps, blowing the bubble that + breaks. We need an outlet—a vent—you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” said Warble, “your soul pressure is too high.” + </p> + <p> + “But we want it high—we love it high—we're restless—we're + keyed up, taut-strung, and hungry for soul food.” + </p> + <p> + “I s'pose that's the only kind you have at these meetings.” + </p> + <p> + Faith Loveman stared so hard that Warble made a face at her and went home. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She reflected. + </p> + <p> + “It was my fault. I might have known restless people wouldn't eat. And I + knew I couldn't bite on their restless sex problems. A big one seems to be + how to get thin and how to stay so. They were all ready to drop the high + sign babble for that! But all women are. They took it up again. + </p> + <p> + “Can I reform them? Or shall I be sucked in, like Italians eat spaghetti, + and my personality absorbed by the Butterflies, till I forswear all I + stand for—all my utilitarian ideals shattered, all my prosaic hopes + dashed, all my common sense wrenched from me, and my poor little brain-pan + filled with the soul-mash of these high-strung sexaphones?” + </p> + <p> + She ignored Beer's offer to undress her, she ran upstairs to an + unfrequented bathroom, and flinging off her clothes, she got into the tub + and wept in terror, her body a round pink blob in the briny water. + </p> + <p> + But, thought the poor child, it's the most sensible place to cry. + </p> + <p> + When Petticoat came home she said: + </p> + <p> + “Honeybunch, let me in on your professional secrets. Tell me more about + your most interesting cases. It might make me restless.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing much to tell. Life just one ptomaine after another. Cases all + alike except for the primal cause.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, tell me something. Where've you been just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Over to Iva's. She had 'em again. Ripe olives. Getting better. Where you + been?” + </p> + <p> + “To the Restless Sexteen Club.” + </p> + <p> + “Like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't get it. They talk about things that aren't there. But I think I + could make them see—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, cut it out, Warble. You'd dust books so hard, you'd dust off the gilt + edges. They're deep-sea thinkers, that bunch—let 'em alone. What'd + they talk about?” + </p> + <p> + “About a book called 'Painted Shawls' or something, and about + Thyco-Serapy, and about a play called 'The Housebroke Heart.' Take me to + see it, will you, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't like it. You'd prefer the movies.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Four days later, Daisy Snow called and gave Warble a jolt or two. + </p> + <p> + “Huh, sizing me up, are they?” Warble sniffed. “Looking at me through the + footle, distorted little microscope of their own silly scrubby little + souls! Pooh, they couldn't, one of them, make a decent puff paste!” + </p> + <p> + “But we can get cooks to do that. The Intelligentsia seek for the rare + essence of thought, for colored words and perfumed cadences—” + </p> + <p> + “There, there, Daisy, don't try me too far! What did Lotta Munn say about + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she didn't say much. Just that you're too stout and you haven't any + ideals and you don't know a picture from a hole in the wall, and she + thinks a man like Dr. Petticoat is wasted on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh, she used to like Bill herself, didn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “Does yet. She's poisoned nearly as often as Iva Payne is.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm; anybody else after Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Only May Young.” + </p> + <p> + “And you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, me! I'm just a débutante. I'm not after anybody yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is mine—and + I won't stand for any nonsense about that.” + </p> + <p> + “My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says you + haven't any.” + </p> + <p> + “She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?” + </p> + <p> + “They made fun of your party—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!” + </p> + <p> + “They thought those bathing suits were—er—rather bizarre—” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>didn't</i> get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. + And they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands + and knees. + </p> + <p> + It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, dead + these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a <i>chaise longue</i>, + absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more hair out of + each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely architectural + viewpoint. + </p> + <p> + “What's the trouble?” Warble asked, “broken down arches?” + </p> + <p> + “Nope, guess they're all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Bill,” and she crept into the hollow of his chest, “are folks + talking about me?” + </p> + <p> + “They sure are.” + </p> + <p> + “What do they say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well. And what about the girls? Are they jealous of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Sort of. Lotta says if you cut her out with Trymie Icanspoon, she'll + elope with me.” + </p> + <p> + “And will she?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I reach the ticket office first. Besides, I like Iva better.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill, don't you love me any more?” + </p> + <p> + “Course I do, Little Fudge Sundae. But a popular doctor has + responsibilities.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I don't mean to be unreasonable. But let's keep peace in the + family as long as it's convenient—see what I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Do you think I'd like my new pajims better trimmed with frilled + malines, or just decorated with a conventional pattern of gold soutache + braid?” + </p> + <p> + Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated <i>chaise longue</i> + made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing + gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through + “What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare,” wound his watch, put out his + Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and back, + and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on his heels. + </p> + <p> + But until he bawled, “Aren't you ever going to clear out?” she sat, + unmoving. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The stories + she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an “Oh, my dear, I + can't tell you <i>that</i> one—it's <i>too</i> awful!” + </p> + <p> + Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the + point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That Mrs. Charity Givens had heard she was a great heiress, and meant to + stick her for a new hospital. That Le Grand Paynter wanted to do her + portrait, life size and full width, and that the Reverend Avery Goodman + said she was very light on her feet for a fat woman. + </p> + <p> + The last made Warble mad and she made a face at Lotta and sent her home. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A rose-colored June day. Meringues of cloud floating on a sky of cerulean + custard. + </p> + <p> + She crawled out for a walk. It was ninety-eight in the shade, too hot to + run much. + </p> + <p> + She walked down Ptomaine Street, her nose shining, and pearly drops + chasing each other down her back like rain on a car window pane. + </p> + <p> + In her tucked white dimity and ankle-ties, her pink sunbonnet and her + tiny, frilled parasol, she was as much out of place in the aesthetic town + as whipped cream on a grapefruit. + </p> + <p> + She circled the outskirts of the town, and noted the massive and imposing + gateways to the great estates. She knew the grandeur inside, she had been + there. Cubist landscapes, some of them, others were Russian steppes, and + in one instance a magnate was having the ruins of an Egyptian temple + excavated on his grounds, which he had previously with difficulty and at + great expense had buried there. + </p> + <p> + She did not know what to do about it. + </p> + <p> + She felt, intuitively, that these men would resent her criticism of their + homes. Yet she couldn't let it go on—this gigantic inutility, this + mammoth lack of practical, efficient management. + </p> + <p> + Why, the ground sunk in a sunken garden would raise crops enough to feed + an army—and Lord knew how soon they might be needed. + </p> + <p> + And then she happened to think that reform, like charity should begin at + home, and she decided to start in on Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + She did. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They were sitting in their home-like Tower of Jewels, and, a bit timidly, + Warble said, “Let's pote quoetry to each other.” + </p> + <p> + Poor child, nervousness or emotion always made her reverse her initial + letters. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Petticoat returned, good naturedly, “you begin.” + </p> + <p> + Just what Warble wanted! Fate was always good to her. + </p> + <p> + “I will, because I hope to reform your tastes, dear, and teach you to see + the beauty of simple beautiful poetry. Listen to this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Weep and the world weeps with you, + Laugh and you laugh alone—” + </pre> + <p> + “That'll do, Warb. Don't go too far. Now it's my turn. But, you know, + dear, quoting isn't everything. You must learn to dissect, to interpret, + and above all to trace the influences that swayed the poet. + </p> + <p> + “Now I'll read you a poem picked at random, and then I'll trace the + influences for you.” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat reached out a languid arm, picked up a current magazine and + read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'FULFILMENT + + 'Here, at your delicate bosom, let death + Come to me + Where night has made a warm Elysium, + Lulled by a soft, invisible sea. + + 'Now in the porches of your soul I stand + Where once I stood; + Fed and forgiven by a liberal hand, + My broken boyhood is renewed. + + 'You are my bread and honey, set among + A grove of spice; + An ever brimming cup; a lyric sung + After the thundering battle-cries. + + 'You are my well-loved earth, forever fresh, + Forever prodigal, forever fond, + As, from the sweet fulfilment of the flesh, + I reach beyond.'” + </pre> + <p> + Noting that Warble was still awake, Petticoat discoursed: + </p> + <p> + “In the first line, we note the influence of Swinburne. There could be no + better start out. The Swinburne collocation of delicate bosom and death is + both arrestive and interesting. The third and fourth lines denote the + influence of Poe. To be sure, 'a warm Elysium' sounds like a new and + appetizing soft drink, but that is not what is meant; and the sea is + indubitably the one that sounded around the tomb of Miss Annabel Lee. + </p> + <p> + “The second stanza opens under pure Tennysonian influences. This may not + be clear at first to the beginner in influence tracing, but it is + unmistakably so to the expert. The recurring sibilants, the sound without + sense, the fine architectural imagery, all point to the great Lady Alfred. + The latter half of this stanza is due entirely to the strong influence of + D. W. Griffith. The poem was, without doubt, written after the poet had + been to see 'Broken Blossoms,' and the liberal hand from which that + production was flung to a waiting world left its ineffaceable + finger-prints on his polished mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now we come to stanza three. The first line shows the influence of Mother + Goose; the second is an unconscious echo of Solomon's Song; the + ever-brimming cup owes itself to Omar; and the rest of the stanza to + Rupert Brooke. + </p> + <p> + “Thus we see the importance of widespread reading, and a catholicity of + influences. + </p> + <p> + “Influence is wonderful! To invent a new simile, it is like a pebble + dropped into a placid lake; the ripples form ever-widening circles, and + the influence of an influence is never wholly lost. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—and this is quite as it should be—the final stanza is + the finest of all. It starts out under the influences of Walt Whitman. Had + Walt been omitted, the whole structure would have tumbled to the ground! + No self-respecting poet now-a-days writes without being influenced by + Whitman. It isn't done. It would be as indiscreet as to appear in one's + shirt-sleeves. The influence of the good, gray Poet <i>must</i> be felt, + must be <i>shown</i>, or the budding bard is out of the running. Only a + dash of Whitman is needed—'my well-loved earth' and 'prodigal' are + quite sufficient. + </p> + <p> + “'The sweet fulfilment of the flesh' is a final roundup that gracefully + blends Whitman's and Ella Wheeler Wilcox's influential powers—and, + incidentally, justifies the magnificent title of the poem. + </p> + <p> + “Then, as a crowning triumph, note the splendid last line, a masterpiece + brought about by the influence of Sir Oliver Lodge and his spiritistic + ilk! Could anything be finer? What imagery for a last line! What a + break-off, leaving the gasping reader in a state of choking suspense, of + avid, ungratified curiosity! A great poem indeed, and influenced by a + noble army of writers. + </p> + <p> + “Nor is the manner of the thing all that matters. The theme—the + great idea of the whole affair—is a marvelous example of influence. + The New York State Legislature recently passed a bill making attempted + suicide no longer a punishable offense. If successful, it is, like virtue, + its own reward. Indeed, it has to be, for as the Penal Code distinctly + states, owing to the impossibility of reaching the successful perpetrator + no forfeiture is imposed. But the new law lifts the ban from futile + efforts in the matter of self-destruction, and one need not pay the + hitherto exacted fine of a thousand dollars by way of a luxury tax on such + diversion. + </p> + <p> + “Can it be doubted, then, that our Poet read of this new law, and—it + may be unconsciously—was so influenced by it that he devoted sixteen + lines of his precious verse to the expression of his willingness to let + death come to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't blame him for being willing, and I wouldn't put a straw in + Death's way,” said Warble, earnestly. “I'm glad you read me that, Bill, + for that is just the sort of thing I mean to eradicate from your system. + It's like a disease, this aestheticism of yours—it's the Culture + Ptomaine.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, hold on, Dumpling Dear, do you know a culture from a ptomaine?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mean the cultures you take, I mean Culture with a big C. It's + a poison, and as you cure ptomaine poisoning, I'm going to cure this town + of its deadly art poisoning. I'm in revolt.” + </p> + <p> + “That's right, everybody who is anybody is in revolt against something + nowadays, because our knowledge of the truth is too great for our existing + conditions, and it bursts—” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Like poor Betsy Binn, who was so very pure within, + She burst this outer shell of sin, + And hatched herself a cherubim!” + </pre> + <p> + Warble interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I'm too fat?” Warble again interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “I do, my dear. You weren't, I think you are, I know you will be.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you love me more if I were—didn't weigh so much?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in exact inverse ratio.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Warble was a determined little person, and, too, fate often gave her a + good boost, and she thought one was about due. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's. + </p> + <p> + Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the + moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called + Seven Hills. + </p> + <p> + Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of Constantine + and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the entrance + patio. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Pot Pie,” screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, “come on in, the + firewater's fine.” + </p> + <p> + It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged + Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as + they spun the Toddletops. + </p> + <p> + Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others kindly + instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some other + devices of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name. + </p> + <p> + Also, there were tables, where those who chose played high-staked bridge, + poker or rum. + </p> + <p> + Warble wasn't a born gambler. Games of chance had no appeal for her. She + wanted to make faces at everybody and run away. But she scolded herself + for being too superior and forced herself to stay with the bunch. + </p> + <p> + In a way, she was rewarded, for she won all the money from the others. Her + luck was monumental. 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She was a proud and stuck-up chit all the evening. + </p> + <p> + Trymie Icanspoon called and flirted something fierce. But it didn't mean a + thing to Warble, for the man was so saturated with art that it oozed forth + in his conversation and she had no idea what he was driving at. + </p> + <p> + He went home thinking she was the most deliciously tempting morsel he had + ever seen and the biggest fool. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “No, I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, as a gift-book, but + he's no man. Could I kiss him? Not with a real movie kiss. + </p> + <p> + “They say marriage is a lottery. I haven't drawn much. I mean in the + matter of love. I wish I had a Prince Charming. Bill would do, all right, + but he thinks I'm too fat. I wish I could get thinner—all of them + are. Lotta's like a golf club and Daisy's like a breadstick. + </p> + <p> + “I s'pose they were born that way. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder when we'll begin to keep a family. + </p> + <p> + “I'm crazy about Bill—I am—I am— + </p> + <p> + “Am I? + </p> + <p> + “All the girls are, too. + </p> + <p> + “Does he care for them? For any of them? For all of them? + </p> + <p> + “For that detestable Daisy? That disgusting Iva? That rotten Lotta! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I may as well admit it—I just adore Bill! + </p> + <p> + “This frock is too tight—I must have it stretched. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm mad over my husband—but—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She sought Petticoat in his rooms. + </p> + <p> + She tumbled into his lap, and he pushed her out until he could set aside + the Angora cat and the Airedale and his pet guinea pig, then he said + politely, “Is this your seat?” and she perched on his knee. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love me, dear?” she asked, her voice full of a dumb pathos. + </p> + <p> + “Ooooooooooooooooooo! I'm sleepy,” he said, with a cavernous yawn and a + Herculean stretch that threw her out on the floor. “Want any money?” She + looked at him. He was not unlike John Barrymore in The Jest, and Warble + fell for him afresh. + </p> + <p> + “You are so beautiful—” she wailed. “I wish you loved me—” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I did,” he returned, honestly, “but you are such a butter-ball.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Butterfly Thenter calls anybody Butter-ball who weights over + ninety-five! If you're so cut up about it I won't live under this roof + another minute! I can earn my own living, and all I want, too! You can get + a divorce and marry some thread of a woman who has ptomaines all the + time!” + </p> + <p> + “Pish, tush, Warb, don't be a damfool! Lay off the melodrama. I do love + you—at least, I love ninety-five pounds of you. Now, will you be + good?” + </p> + <p> + “Yeth.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you try to think of me as a devoted and loving husband, even if + I'm not one?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear, I am unjust to you! I will take what you give me—what + you can spare from the little dog and the cat and the guinea pig. And I + will be your own little Petty Warblecoat. And I won't give you over to Iva + Payne—I hate her!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + The mail. + </h3> + <p> + The Petticoats rarely received mail. It wasn't done much in Butterfly + Center. So unaesthetic. + </p> + <p> + On a tray, a lacquered lackey brought a letter to Warble. + </p> + <p> + A white letter. Large and square—ominously square. + </p> + <p> + Warble took tray and all and went with it to Petticoat's rooms—the + letter was addressed to him. + </p> + <p> + She tapped but there was no answer. Listening at the door, she could hear + him splashing in his rock-hewn bath and leaping, chamois-like, from crag + to crag of his quarried bathroom. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on the floor and waited. Petticoat's toilets were like linked + sweetness, long drawn out. + </p> + <p> + It was late afternon, before he emerged, fresh, roseate and smiling, and + imprinted a kiss on Warble's cheek that left the red stamp of a + lip-sticked mouth. Warble sometimes thought if it could be arranged as a + dating stamp, she could keep a record of when he had last kissed her. + </p> + <p> + Poor little Warble—she loved her Big Bill so fondly, and he only + looked on her as something fatter than his dog, a little bigger than his + cat. Timidly she proffered the trayed letter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my Heavens!” and Petticoat smote himself, hip and thigh. “Where did + you get this? Why was I not told sooner of its arrival? To me! And + postmarked Lake Skoodoow-abskoosis! Home of my ancestors! Woman! Why this + delay? <i>Why</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “It came this morning,” said Warble, apologetically, “but you were in your + bath, and the door was locked.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is a most important letter. Why didn't you slip it under the + door?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't,” said Warble, simply, “it was on a tray.” + </p> + <p> + “As I hoped—I mean, feared—” exclaimed Petticoat, tearing the + envelope from the sheet, “he is dead!” + </p> + <p> + It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope—she always slit + them neatly with a paper-knife—but she was thrilled by Petticoat's + excitement. + </p> + <p> + “A fortune!” he exclaimed. “My revered ancestor, the oldest of the + Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! Now + we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, too! Oh, + Warble, ain't we got fun!” + </p> + <p> + He danced about the room, in his blue burnous and red tarbush, looking + more like a howling dervish than a tempestuous Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice—and perhaps she could + reform that more easily than she could older people. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” she said, “and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns of shuffy + fliffon—I mean, fliffy shuffon, no—shiffy fluffon—oh, + pleathe—pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, but + Petticoat didn't notice her. + </p> + <p> + “I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard,” he mused, “he'll know. + The last man I sent to Spain for a casemented façade, brought home a + temple! But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run over + just now—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The baby was coming. + </p> + <p> + Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She + sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris + powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca + Delia Robbia and Fra Angelico. + </p> + <p> + Also a few influential Madonnas. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The Butterflies came in with advice. Marigold Leathersham was dubious + about the wisdom of the plan, but brought a pillow of antique rose point, + filled with ostrich plumes. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Holm Boddy rushed over with a copy of <i>Poems Every Expectant Mother + Ought to Know</i>, and Lotta Munn sent a card of diamond safety pins. + </p> + <p> + Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling + downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence + didn't amount to much. + </p> + <p> + Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of <i>How to Tell + Your Young</i>, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and + Faith Loveman sent her own marked copy of <i>Cooks that Have Helped Me</i>. + </p> + <p> + But Warble made a face at them all, and gave their books to the Salvation + Army and read the Diary of Maggot Somebody. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Another fate slather. + </p> + <p> + The baby was twins. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble—fate in big chunks—destiny + in cloudbursts. + </p> + <p> + Two little red Petticoats all at once to hang on the ancestral tree. + </p> + <p> + But Warble was not caught napping. In her efficient way, she had provided + two bassinets, two nurseries—in fact, she had really provided three + of everything, but the third wasn't needed, and she thriftily ordered it + put aside for the present and for the future. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Petticoat was enchanted. + </p> + <p> + He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by the + skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on his + offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them Guelph + and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran off at once + to put up their names at various select and inaccessible clubs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Petticoat had five hobbies. Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, + Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. + </p> + <p> + The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger days had + been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she flibbered + differently now. + </p> + <p> + She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. + wing, and permeated the household. + </p> + <p> + Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits. Bobbed hair. Smoked cigars. + </p> + <p> + About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty. + </p> + <p> + Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to spar + with him, being a bit off condition. + </p> + <p> + “I've no use for Bill,” she would say, “with his custard pie ideals, his + soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine <i>lingerie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir. + </p> + <p> + She looked at Warble appraisingly. + </p> + <p> + “You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a + blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. You + get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. What do + you think of me?” + </p> + <p> + Warble made a face at her. “Corking!” screamed Aunt Dressie, “you come + straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not adequately.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm. You love him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yeth!” + </p> + <p> + “All right—love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a + case of ptomaine poisoning—that'd help. But don't take the matter + too lightly. If you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him + go. + </p> + <p> + “I've just let mine go. You see we had a place—a sort of Vegetarian + and Free Love Community proposition, but it didn't work out so we sold + it.” + </p> + <p> + “And your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's on his own for a while. I'm deciding what to fly at next. I + always ask nephew Bill's advice so as to know what not to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgot to mention it,” said Petticoat, strolling in, “but a few people + are coming to-night to help me plan for my new Color Organ.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” asked Warble, gazing at Petticoat in azure-eyed adoration. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord, don't you know <i>anything</i>? Tell her, Aunt Dressie!” and + turning on his French heel, Petticoat walked delicately out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Treat him rough, Warble, you're an awful fool,” commented the older + woman. “Why, a Color Organ is that marvelous new invention that plays + color instead of sound.” + </p> + <p> + “Color—instead of—sound—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—now don't try to understand, for you can't possibly. Go and + play with the children.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't. Tell me more about this thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't. You can hear it to-night, when they all talk about it.” + </p> + <p> + “What use is it?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Dressie stared at her. “What use are you?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Warble's brain stopped beating. + </p> + <p> + Bump. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What use was she—she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! + What use? Grrrhhh! + </p> + <p> + She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the + dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! + </p> + <p> + “I don't care! I won't endure it! + </p> + <p> + “What's Aunt Dressie anyhow? A military blonde, with glazed chintz undies! + What's Marigold Leathersham? A smart party who wears a hat! + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use—” she groaned, “perpetual waste motion—and now + waste color! What to do—what to do! + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's only two alternatives. I must reform this toy town, or be + dragged down to their terrible depths myself! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But not Trymie Icanspoon! No, he makes me sick. I guess I'll eat + pickles.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + In the pantry she found the under scullery maid screaming with an earache. + </p> + <p> + “You poor child,” she said, sympathetically, “I'll run and get my husband + and he'll cure it.” + </p> + <p> + She flew back to the room where the eager group had their heads together + over the blue prints and wash drawing of the new color organ. Pushing in + between Iva and Lotta she seized Bill by the arm and said, “hurry up now—matter + of life or death—Polly, the maid—dying—urgent case—” + </p> + <p> + By that time they were down in the servant's pantry where Polly was + moaning and groaning and wailing like a banshee. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, my dear?” Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very pretty + girl. “Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts and—” + </p> + <p> + “That'll do for a beginning,” Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves + and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and + disinfectants. + </p> + <p> + “Can you do anything, Bill?” Warble asked anxiously, “it isn't ptomaines, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent + bit of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, it's more + than an earache! The bally ear has been stung—or something—anything + bite you, Polly?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, a wasp.” + </p> + <p> + “She says a wathp!” exclaimed Warble. “Oh, Bill, it may mean blood + poisoning!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's true—it is—the ear will have to come off. Guess + I'd better call in old Grandberry to operate—he's an ear specialist—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!” + </p> + <p> + Warble was dancing about in her excitement. “You can do it, Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Get her up on the pastry table—there—that's all + right. Now we'll take her blood pressure—here, Warb, you be taking + her temperature, and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of + instruments—and my X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll + fix you up.” Petticoat lighted a cigarette and sat down to take Polly's + pulse. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” he said to the men who brought the things he had sent for, + “scuttle back for my rubber gloves, and the chloroform outfit. Tell my man + and his helpers to come down—I may need them—and bring me a + clean handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + “Now for an X-ray,” he said, a little later, as he adjusted his portable + X-razor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's all done,” said Warble, “While you were taking her plood + bressure, I cut off her ear—” + </p> + <p> + “What with?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I had a boning knife and the sardine scissors. It's all right. And + I've fixed her hair lovely—in a big curly earmuff, so it will never + show at all. Be quiet for a day or so, Polly, and then you'll be all + right. The only trouble is, after this, orders will probably go in one ear + and out the other—” + </p> + <p> + “You're a hummer, Warble,” Petticoat said, as they went back up stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it had to be done quickly, you see. And it was out of your line, so + I duffed in. But one thing bothered me a little. You see, the fire was + out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a lot—something + might of blew up.” + </p> + <p> + “And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown up—” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <h3> + Porgie Sproggins. + </h3> + <p> + Cave man. Brute. + </p> + <p> + Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable + Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling. + </p> + <p> + Warble saw him first across the room at a picture exhibition in Manley + Knight's gallery. + </p> + <p> + His nose startled her. It was like an alligator pear—and his + complexion was like those cactus fruits that likewise infest fancy + grocers' shops. A visitor from the South Sea Islands? No, he wasn't that + sort. He was a Fossil. Vikings were in his face, and Beef Eaters and + Tarzan. + </p> + <p> + Warble flew at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like me?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he growled, and she kissed his hand which was like a hand by Rodin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is he?” she asked of Trymie. + </p> + <p> + “A miniature painter,” Icanspoon replied, “and a wonder! He does portraits + that fairly make the eyes pop out of your head! He's got the world agog.” + </p> + <p> + Warble drifted back to the attraction. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Do</i> like me,” she said, and shot him a glance that was a bolt from + the blue. + </p> + <p> + Warble was of the appealing sex, and hardly a man was yet alive who could + resist her. + </p> + <p> + Sproggins turned on her fiercely. He grasped her by the shoulders, + pressing them back as if he would tear her apart. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see your soul!” he demanded, and his great face came near to peer + down through her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ugh, merely blocked in,” and he flung her from him. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't block tin!” she retorted, angrily, “it's pure gold—as you + will find out!” + </p> + <p> + He gave her another glance and two more grunts and turned away to devote + himself to Daisy Snow. + </p> + <p> + Bing! That was the way things came to Warble. + </p> + <p> + Fate, Kismet, Predestination—whatever it was, it came zip! boom! + hell-for-leather! + </p> + <p> + “It's not only his strength but his crudeness—like petroleum or + Egyptian art. + </p> + <p> + “He can control— + </p> + <p> + “Amazingly impertinent! + </p> + <p> + “He wasn't— + </p> + <p> + “But I wish he had been— + </p> + <p> + “He will be!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She went to see him—in his studio. + </p> + <p> + A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt gimcracks. + Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons. + </p> + <p> + “Get out,” he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his + niggling at a miniature. + </p> + <p> + Warble made a face at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do that again,” he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory. + </p> + <p> + A few tiny brushmarks. + </p> + <p> + A wonder picture of Warble—made face, and all. + </p> + <p> + “Pleathe—Pleathe—” she held out her hand, and he dropped the + miniature into it. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you hit it off better with your husband?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Don't ask me things when you know everything yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. I paint a miniature of a face, and I get a soul laid bare.” + </p> + <p> + “Your name? Your silly first name—” + </p> + <p> + “It's a nickname.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Areopagitica.” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet—sweet—” cooed Warble, dimpling. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers—” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + “It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my life. But + to be a ragpicker—ah, there's something to strive for! A + rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a + galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines—whoa!—giddap, + there! oh—Warble, come with me!” + </p> + <p> + He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and running + around, faced him impishly. + </p> + <p> + “Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in the + rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?” + </p> + <p> + “No, better stay here—” he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a + deep purple bruise. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Better not stay here—better go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Goodby.” + </p> + <p> + He took her up—it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger—and + set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she + paused to look in at his door, greeted her: + </p> + <p> + “Had a good time?” + </p> + <p> + She could not answer. + </p> + <p> + He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his wringing + wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. + </p> + <p> + “Gooooo—oooo—oo—d night,” he said. + </p> + <p> + That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling smattering + with a brute beast. + </p> + <p> + “No, he is not! He has noble impulses—ragpicking—inspired! His + eyes were misty when he spoke of it— + </p> + <p> + “A way out of Butterfly Thenter! + </p> + <p> + “A ragpicker's cart— + </p> + <p> + “A way out—” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat held her up. + </p> + <p> + “You seem a bit gone on that tin-type fellow, Sproggins.” + </p> + <p> + “Yop. Maybe I'd better go to Atlantic Thity for a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you stay here. A lady's place is in the home.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So she was fairly thrown at Porgie. + </p> + <p> + Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or + rubbers. + </p> + <p> + The night came unheralded. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons—over-ripe + sardines—and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a + stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, + where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black pool, + Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing her + position every ten seconds. + </p> + <p> + A giant lumbered in. + </p> + <p> + “Porgie!” + </p> + <p> + “Saw your husband speeding away—couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take + me upstairs—I want to see your shoe cabinet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your + dreams and ideals—your rags—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—rags—you do love me!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—but I love rags—sweet—so sweet—” + </p> + <p> + “You're a misfit here—as who isn't. All misfits, frauds—fakes—liars—” + </p> + <p> + “All?” Warble looked interested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you little simpleton. I know!” He growled angrily. “Shall I tell you—tell + you the truth about the Butterflies?” + </p> + <p> + “Pleathe—pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + “I will! You ought to know—you gullible little fool. Well, to start + with, Avery Goodman—in his true nature, he's a worldly, carnal man. + His religion is a cloak, a raincoat, a mere disguise. Mrs. Charity Givens, + now, she's no more truly charitable than I am! She's shrewd and stingy, + her lavish gifts to the poor are merely made for the sake of the praise + and eulogy heaped upon her by her admiring friends. Manley Knight, renowed + for his bravery in the war, is an arrant coward. His soul is a thing of + whining terror, his heroism but a mask. Oh, I know—I read these + people truly, when they sit to me—off guard and unconsciously + betraying themselves. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Holm Boddy! Pah! She's far from domestic! She yearns for the halls + of dazzling light, for gayety and even debauchery. Her devotion to home + and children is the blackest of lies! And Iva Payne! She's no invalid! + It's a pose to seem interesting and delicately fragile. You should see her + stuff when no one's looking! + </p> + <p> + “Judge Drinkwater is a secret drunkard. Lotta Munn is a pauper—an + adventuress, pretending to wealth she doesn't possess. Herman True and his + wife! Zounds, if you could hear those two quarrel! Yet they pose as lovers + yet, and folks fall for it!” + </p> + <p> + “May Young?” Warble asked, breathlessly. + </p> + <p> + “An old maid. Well preserved, but no chicken. And Daisy Snow! Angel-faced + débutante! Huh, she knows more than her mother ever dreamed of! You should + see her in my studio, at her sittings! Cocktails, cigarettes, snatches of + wild cabaret songs and dances—oh, Daisy Snow is a caution!” + </p> + <p> + “The Leathershams?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a profiteer—she—well, she was a cook—” + </p> + <p> + “Marigold! No!” + </p> + <p> + “Marigold, yes! You are a little numskull, you know. You can't see through + these people's masks.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I reform them?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! Stop! I can't stand any more! Pleathe go—pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “What're you going to do about that Tertium Quid you've annexed?” Aunt + Dressie inquired, casually. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” Warble uncertained. “He has wonderful ambitions and + aspirations. He wants to be a ragpicker—a real one.” + </p> + <p> + “Ambitions are queer things,” Aunt Dressie thoughtfuled. “Now, you + mightn't think it, but I want to be a steeple climber.” + </p> + <p> + “You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie—and you saw him first.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head. + </p> + <p> + Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the + rapids are below you! + </p> + <p> + Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First—all the + deadly virtues called her. + </p> + <p> + Did she heed? + </p> + <p> + As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie came. + </p> + <p> + Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the + moon-parlor. She wore a picture frock of <i>point d'esprit</i> and tiny + pink rosebuds, and little pink socks and sandals. + </p> + <p> + “Come out on the Carp Pond,” he muttered, picking her up and stuffing her + in his pocket. “Nobody will see us.” + </p> + <p> + He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three of + his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted + back. Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail of + his ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in. + </p> + <p> + “Think of it!” he boomed. “No fetters of fashion, no gyves of convention. + Free—free as air—free verse, free love, free lunch—ah, + goroo—goroo!” + </p> + <p> + “Goroo—” agreed Warble, “sweet—sweet—” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet yourself!” roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his + gorilla-like arms just as a ringing, musical, “Ship ahoy!” sounded on + their ears. + </p> + <p> + “Hello there, Warbie!” + </p> + <p> + She knew then it was Petticoat. + </p> + <p> + “Having a walk?” he inquired, casually. + </p> + <p> + “Yop,” she casualed back. + </p> + <p> + He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and + snatched Warble in beside himself. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go home,” he said, cheerfully. “Good night, Sproggins.” + </p> + <p> + He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and + twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather + touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Warb, what about the baboon?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? Pleathe—” + </p> + <p> + “Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing—a good old + Cotton-Petticoat—birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has + none of these—” + </p> + <p> + “But he loves me!” Warble wailed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, 'cause he can't get you. Go along with him, and then see where + you'll be! No, my Soufflée, you hear me! Can the Porgie and stick to your + own Big Bill—your own legit.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don't love me—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do—in my quaint married-man fashion. And—ahem—I + hate to mention it—but—” + </p> + <p> + “I know—and I <i>am</i> banting—and exercising, and rolling + downstairs and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we're married, and divorces are not the novelty they once were—so + let's stay put.” + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me, then—” + </p> + <p> + He brushed a butterfly kiss across her left eyebrow, and together they + strolled back into the house, and as he went up to bed, Warble went down + to the pantry to see about something. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + “I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter,” Warble sobbed, “I don't b-belong—and + I-m g-going away—” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Petticoat said, cheerfully, “how long'll you be gone?” + </p> + <p> + “It may be four yearth and it may be eleven—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done.” + </p> + <p> + “You d-don't underthtand—I'm going to find my plathe in the world—I + don't belong here.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Can I go 'long?” + </p> + <p> + “No; you stay here. I'm—oh, don't you thee—I'm leaving you!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's it?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have the girls to amuse you—” + </p> + <p> + “What girls?” + </p> + <p> + “Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young—” + </p> + <p> + “They're not girls—they're married women—” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + “Sure they are. They don't live with their husbands all the time—they're + pretty modern, you know. They have separate establishments, but they're + friendly, pally, and even a heap in love with each other.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it—” + </p> + <p> + “Fact, all the same. Where you going Warble—that is, if you care to + tell.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going where I can live a busy, useful life—not a Butterfly + existence, with nothing to occupy my mind but art and hifalutin lingo! I + can't express myself with long candles and Oriental junk! I'm going—oh, + I don't know where I'm going, but I'm taking the next train out of + Butterfly Thenter!” + </p> + <p> + “Warble—haven't I treated you right? Haven't you had enough to eat? + The Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers—” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't that, Bill, dear—it's that—you don't love me very + much—” + </p> + <p> + Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden + curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump shoulder + to the other. + </p> + <p> + “Goodby, Warble,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom! All at once, in unlimited + measure—freedom! + </p> + <p> + Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen down on + the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and indomitable, + on her way. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Hoboken. + </p> + <p> + Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, + cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, cauldrons, + boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, jars, + labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, inflamed + oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis. + </p> + <p> + That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position + was that of a pickle taster. + </p> + <p> + At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium + cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills. + </p> + <p> + A conscientious taster—faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing + speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well. + </p> + <p> + Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her. + </p> + <p> + Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of + Petticoats. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yet: A glorious soft summer afternoon. + </p> + <p> + Warble alone in a room with a big, forceful looking man. + </p> + <p> + The door is closed, and the gentle breeze scarce stirs the opaque white + curtains. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” he said, not unkindly, but the girl screamed. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon,” Petticoat said, nonchalantly, “sorry. Thought you were my + wife. Know where I can find her?” + </p> + <p> + A slim, fairy-like Warble turned to greet him. + </p> + <p> + Petticoat couldn't believe his eyes. That sylph, that thread, that wisp—his + Warble—his one time plump wife! + </p> + <p> + “Gee, you're great!” he cried, “I'm for you!” + </p> + <p> + She got leave from the factory for a couple of years, with privilege of + extension. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to impose on your kindness,” he said, “but I'd like to chase + around Hoboken and take in the sights, I've never been here before.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a Bairns' Restaurant,” said Warble, shyly, “we might go there.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They did. In a taxicab. He held her in his lap and told her the news. + </p> + <p> + He had had his own rooms done over. Mediaeval setting. Romanesque arches. + Stained-glass windows. Sculptured cloisters. Good work. + </p> + <p> + “How are the twins?” she asked, timidly. “Pleathe.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine. Miss you terribly—we all do. Butterfly Center mourns your + loss. Spring a come-back, won't you, Warble?” + </p> + <p> + “You want me?” + </p> + <p> + “More than anything in the world! I'm mad about you! You beauty! You + raving beauty! You'll be the talk of the world this winter. Gee, Warble, + how I can dress you, now you're thin! Won't Beer be astounded!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That's the way things came to Warble. + </p> + <p> + The only thing she wanted, her husband's love, now flung at her feet in + unstinted measure, pressed down and running over—love, slathers of + it—all for her! It was sweet—a pleasant change from pickles. + </p> + <p> + “How's everybody?” + </p> + <p> + “Here and there. Iva's gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven! Where'd she go?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno. Her husband took her off. Jealous of me.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm. And Daisy Snow?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone into the movies. She grew too heavy for society. May Young's in the + Old Ladies' Home.” + </p> + <p> + “And Lotta Munn?” + </p> + <p> + “Murdered by her husband. He had to kill her—she wouldn't support + him. The Leathershams are in the poorhouse, and Mrs. Charity Givens has + bought their place. Want to go on a second honeymoon? Round the world?” + </p> + <p> + “Yop.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They went. One night, sitting on top of the Taj Mahal, 'neath the Blue + Moon of Persia, Warble cried, + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go back to Butterfly Thenter—or shall I not?” + </p> + <p> + “Spin a toddletop,” said Petticoat, taking one from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + She spun it and it came up pickle foundry. + </p> + <p> + So Warble said, “All right, dear, I'll go home with you whenever you're + ready,” and she kissed him slenderly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ptomaine Haul. + </p> + <p> + Two Petticoats arriving. A happy Warble sprang from the car and seemed + fairly to skim up the steps. She passed, unnoticing, the pantry door, and + flew up to her own rooms which had been done over to suit her new + slenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Beer,” she cried, “look at me!” + </p> + <p> + “Maddum!” cried the astounded Beer. “What done it?” + </p> + <p> + “Unrequited love and pickles. I can wear sport clothes now!” + </p> + <p> + “Maddum can wear anything or nothing!” declared Beer triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + That night, Warble, her hands behind her, wafted into Petticoat's room. + </p> + <p> + He sat on the edge of his bed, running lingerie ribbons in his underwear. + </p> + <p> + “I'll stay, always,” Warble said, sidling up to him. “And I'm happy. + But...” + </p> + <p> + “Look out! Don't let the cat get that bolt of ribbon to play with!” + </p> + <p> + She smoothed his pillows and patted his sheets, while Petticoat glanced at + her a little suspiciously, from under his gabled eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “But I don't say that Butterfly Center is worth the ground it's built on. + I don't admit that Ptomaine Street is as useful as a Hoboken alley. I + don't admit that Art is any good at all. I've fought like a tiger and I + didn't make a dent on the Butterflies—but, I <i>have</i> grown + thin!” “Sure, you bet you have!” said Petticoat, threading ribbon into his + gold bodkin. “Well, kiss me good night—here you—I see you! + Don't you put those caterpillars in my bed!” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ptomaine Street, by Carolyn Wells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PTOMAINE STREET *** + +***** This file should be named 8386-h.htm or 8386-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/3/8/8386/ + + +Text file produced by Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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