Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the moon-parlor. She wore a picture frock of _point d'esprit_ and tiny pink rosebuds, and little pink socks and sandals. “Come out on the Carp Pond,” he muttered, picking her up and stuffing her in his pocket. “Nobody will see us.” He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three of his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted back. Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail of his ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in. “Think of it!” he boomed. “No fetters of fashion, no gyves of convention. Free--free as air--free verse, free love, free lunch--ah, goroo--goroo!” “Goroo--” agreed Warble, “sweet--sweet--” “Sweet yourself!” roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his gorilla-like arms just as a ringing, musical, “Ship ahoy!” sounded on their ears. “Hello there, Warbie!” She knew then it was Petticoat. “Having a walk?” he inquired, casually. “Yop,” she casualed back. He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and snatched Warble in beside himself. “Time to go home,” he said, cheerfully. “Good night, Sproggins.” He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard. “Now, Warb, what about the baboon?” “I want to go ragpick with him and be pag-rickers together. Can I? Pleathe--” “Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing--a good old Cotton-Petticoat--birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has none of these--” “But he loves me!” Warble wailed. “Yes, 'cause he can't get you. Go along with him, and then see where you'll be! No, my Soufflée, you hear me! Can the Porgie and stick to your own Big Bill--your own legit.” “But you don't love me--” “Oh, I do--in my quaint married-man fashion. And--ahem--I hate to mention it--but--” “I know--and I _am_ banting--and exercising, and rolling downstairs and all that.” “Well, we're married, and divorces are not the novelty they once were--so let's stay put.” “Kiss me, then--” He brushed a butterfly kiss across her left eyebrow, and together they strolled back into the house, and as he went up to bed, Warble went down to the pantry to see about something. CHAPTER XIII “I d-don't belong to Butterfly Thenter,” Warble sobbed, “I don't b-belong--and I-m g-going away--” “All right,” Petticoat said, cheerfully, “how long'll you be gone?” “It may be four yearth and it may be eleven--” “Oh, come, now, not all that time! It isn't done.” “You d-don't underthtand--I'm going to find my plathe in the world--I don't belong here.” “All right. Can I go 'long?” “No; you stay here. I'm--oh, don't you thee--I'm leaving you!” “Oh, that's it?” “You'll have the girls to amuse you--” “What girls?” “Iva and Lotta and Daisy and May Young--”