Not so the remainder of the citizens.
One of the men was yelling at Petticoat:
“Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours—I'll tote the bride-person you've got there—with joy and gladness.” Warble looked at the yeller.
“Can't quite place me, chick, can you?” he grinned at her. “Well I'm only old Goldwin Leathersham—no use for me in the world but to spend money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing—step up here, Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than she looks, Mrs. Petticoat.”
“Indeed I'm not,” Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, “I couldn't be—nobody could be!”
She came running—a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a lavish smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away from and through Warble, yet she saw her.
“So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby,” she chirruped. “You're going to love us all, aren't you?”
“Yop,” said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile.
“You bet she'll love us,” declared Leathersham, “she'll make the world go round! Hello, Little One,” he turned to pat the cheek of a white-haired, red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, stood by, listening in. “This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs. Charity Givens—noted for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads all Donation Lists, and she's going to start a rest cure where your husband's unsuccessful cases may die in peace. And here's one of the cases. Hello, Iva Payne!”
“Hello,” languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily—a Burne-Jones type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass window to rest her head against.