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.