"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.
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