She was.
Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a built-in English bed, with gray draperies.
Through a cloth of silver portiére, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. Oxidized silver plumbing exposure.
No pictures on the walls, save one—a barbaric Russian panel by Larrovitch.
At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk—all gray.
A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon it and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the quarrel.
“They took to you,” he said, “you went like hot cakes!”
It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging smile, wheedled, “Pleathe, pleathe—”
“No,” Petticoat said, inexorably, “if you eat all the time you'll get to look like that soprano. Howja like that?”