“Oh, no. We don't waste money that way.” “Bare floors?” “No, carpets. More homey, you know. Nice Brussels in the parlor--real Body Brussels--Bigelow--and in the bedrooms, Ingrain. Oh, the hominess of a new-laid Ingrain carpet, with lots of fresh straw under it! You acquainted with Avery Goodman, the Rector?” “I've met him.” “Splendid man-spiritual-minded and all that. Fine preacher, too. Very soulful. I often sob right through his sermons. Better go hear him.” “My husband is a busy man--we haven't time for church.” “No, spose not. Doctors are kept on the jump. Specially specialists. And I know your husband is busy. Say, is there any truth in the report that he pays the grocers and delicatessen men to get--you know--doubtful canned goods, and not too fresh sea foods and all that--so there'll be more ptomaine cases?” “What a good idea!” Warble cried. “I had not heard of it, but if Bill does that he's more efficient than I thought him!” “I spose he's terribly in love with you?” “Bill? Oh, yes. We adore each other.” “I didn't know. The Petticoats are all so thin--” “Yes, a change is always pleasant.” Warble gave her engaging smile. “Maybe. That Daisy Snow now--she's so pretty _and_ slender. Dr. Petticoat seems mighty fond of her.” “Well, you know what doctors are. Nice to everybody, of course. There's no telling who'll have ptomaine poisoning next.” “Oh, yes, you can always tell that. It's sure to be Iva Payne. She's awful attractive, too. You must be worried about your man, Mrs. Petticoat.” “I do worry a lot. It keeps my flesh down. Tell me more to worry about.” “Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of your own?” “Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right.” “You are! Why, where did your husband get you?” “He got me out of a mail catalogue.” Warble made a face at her. “Must you go, Mrs. Boddy?” she rose. “I won't ask you to come again, as I know how you love your own home and fireside. Goodby.” Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out of the front door and slammed it after her. “That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul,” she said, as she went down to see the cook about the sausage. CHAPTER VII She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her party should be a success. In the morning she interviewed the cook. “You can spread yourself on the feast, François,” she said, “have any old menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But especially I want you to make for me one hundred custard pies.” The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish. “But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a crême paté?” “No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard pie--see? _Pie_! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! Get out of my way, I'll make them myself!”