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.
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