"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.
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