“Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?”
“Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're my—well, you're my soulmate.”
“Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my appetite—you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!”
He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street.
CHAPTER VI
Warble's own maid was named Beer.
A French thing—so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris reported skirts going up or down as the case might be.
A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll.