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.
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