“Oh, me! I'm just a débutante. I'm not after anybody yet.” “Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is mine--and I won't stand for any nonsense about that.” “My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says you haven't any.” “She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?” “They made fun of your party--” “Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!” “They thought those bathing suits were--er--rather bizarre--” “I _didn't_ get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. And they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect.” * * * * * Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands and knees. It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, dead these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a _chaise longue_, absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more hair out of each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely architectural viewpoint. “What's the trouble?” Warble asked, “broken down arches?” “Nope, guess they're all right.” “Say, Bill,” and she crept into the hollow of his chest, “are folks talking about me?” “They sure are.” “What do they say?” “Well, I hate to stir up trouble, but since you began it, I may as well own up they think you're just about as lowbrow as they come. And I s'pose you are.” “Oh, well. And what about the girls? Are they jealous of me?” “Sort of. Lotta says if you cut her out with Trymie Icanspoon, she'll elope with me.” “And will she?” “Not if I reach the ticket office first. Besides, I like Iva better.” “Oh, Bill, don't you love me any more?” “Course I do, Little Fudge Sundae. But a popular doctor has responsibilities.” “I know. I don't mean to be unreasonable. But let's keep peace in the family as long as it's convenient--see what I mean?” “I see. Do you think I'd like my new pajims better trimmed with frilled malines, or just decorated with a conventional pattern of gold soutache braid?” Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated _chaise longue_ made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little. Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through “What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare,” wound his watch, put out his Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and back, and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on his heels. But until he bawled, “Aren't you ever going to clear out?” she sat, unmoving. CHAPTER IX Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The stories she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an “Oh, my dear, I can't tell you _that_ one--it's _too_ awful!” Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty.