It was her last effort to cure her husband of culture poisoning, but she was not yet ready to give up her big idea of reforming Butterfly Center. Warble was a determined little person, and, too, fate often gave her a good boost, and she thought one was about due. * * * * * She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's. Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called Seven Hills. Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of Constantine and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the entrance patio. “Hello, Pot Pie,” screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, “come on in, the firewater's fine.” It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as they spun the Toddletops. Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others kindly instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some other devices of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name. Also, there were tables, where those who chose played high-staked bridge, poker or rum. Warble wasn't a born gambler. Games of chance had no appeal for her. She wanted to make faces at everybody and run away. But she scolded herself for being too superior and forced herself to stay with the bunch. In a way, she was rewarded, for she won all the money from the others. Her luck was monumental. Every different game she tried she took all the stakes, and at last having broken the bank, she was forced to go home for lack of occupation. * * * * * She was a proud and stuck-up chit all the evening. Trymie Icanspoon called and flirted something fierce. But it didn't mean a thing to Warble, for the man was so saturated with art that it oozed forth in his conversation and she had no idea what he was driving at. He went home thinking she was the most deliciously tempting morsel he had ever seen and the biggest fool. * * * * * “No, I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, as a gift-book, but he's no man. Could I kiss him? Not with a real movie kiss. “They say marriage is a lottery. I haven't drawn much. I mean in the matter of love. I wish I had a Prince Charming. Bill would do, all right, but he thinks I'm too fat. I wish I could get thinner--all of them are. Lotta's like a golf club and Daisy's like a breadstick. “I s'pose they were born that way. “I wasn't. “I wonder when we'll begin to keep a family. “I'm crazy about Bill--I am--I am-- “Am I? “All the girls are, too. “Does he care for them? For any of them? For all of them? “For that detestable Daisy? That disgusting Iva? That rotten Lotta! “Oh, I may as well admit it--I just adore Bill! “This frock is too tight--I must have it stretched. “Yes, I'm mad over my husband--but--”