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—”