In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, and Warble went back to sleep.
There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was cleared for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a small glass of punch and a wafer to each.
Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys.
Warble and Petticoat reached home.
“Howja like 'em?” he asked.
“I'm so hungry,” she wailed.
“Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It isn't done. Watch Iva Payne—she doesn't.”
“Oh, Bill—” Warble began to cry. “I want to go back to the restaurant—”
“No, no—now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're a smart crowd—”
Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled up her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and waited to be kissed.