“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?”