“What's the matter?” Warble inquired, seeing the hullaballoo. “Oh,” as she was told, “I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and our pieplates gave out.” “Making a lot of pies?” Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold Leathersharn murmured, “How quaint!” in a supercilious way. “Yes,” went on Warble, unperturbed. “Want to see 'em?” They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the pantry windows. “Whoopee!” shouted Petticoat, “here's where I take the helm! Cut out the rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest.” It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their terrible aestheticism at last? Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. “Oh,” she cried, astounded. “I wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just eating what I wanted.” “You're a dear,” Marigold Leathersham said to her. “I'm going to love you. How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing.” “Yes, he does.” Warble stated. “At least, he says so.” “He's a truthful man,” Marigold declared, “you'd know that just to look at him. There's something in his face just now--” “It's pie,” said Warble, “he's very fond of it.” To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final entertainment. “Folks,” she said, “this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides.” Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they chose sides. The party being thus divided, they bombarded each other with custard pies after the manner of certain comedians, till there wasn't a round of ammunition left. Then Iva Payne said she felt sick and wanted to go home and of course just for that they all had to go. “The nicest party ever!” they chorused at parting. “So novel and _naïve_--so quite entirely out of the ordinary.” As the last pied guest disappeared she turned wearily to her Petticoat. “I tell you, Warb,” he said, “you are sure one corker! You put 'em to sleep all right! Now you've shown 'em how, you bet they won't go on having their stupid highbrow intellectural old gatherings. Hop along to bed, little tired Lollipop.” His long lithe arms gathered her forcefully to him, and her irritation at his strength was lost in her admiration of his grace and skill in imparting affection. * * * * * From _The Butterfly Centerpiece_: The Mack Sennett party at the home of Dr. Bill Petticoat was a hundred per cent success. Little Lady Petticoat is nobody's fool. She knows that a lucky punch is her only chance. A short, swift hook, straight from the shoulder. The pretty Warble is a perpetual promise of joy, yet she shows symptoms of curvature of the soul--and it is, so far, a toss-up whether she will have her passport _viséd_ or be given the gate. * * * * *