“I knew it!” and Petticoat produced a pile of Sunday Picture Supplements.
Her cheek nested in his permanent wave, Warble studied the pictures.
They were the last word in artistic architecture. Truly, Butterfly Center, where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless Town and Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching trees, sublimated houses, glorified shops—it seemed to Warble like a flitter-work Christmas card from the drug-store.
“How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?” he jollied her.
“It might be—a lark—” she dubioused.
“But here's the picture!” and proudly he exhibited a full length view of his own home.
“Ptomaine Haul,” he exploited, proudly. “Built every inch of it from the busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's the sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now—he has a corking château—French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens—she has a Georgian shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most profitable patients—sick all the time.”
Warble studied the pictures.
“What expensive people,” she said, “dear—so dear.”
“Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come on, Warble, will you?”