Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it impossible. Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard sauce off a hot apple dumpling.
“Do you get enough to eat, Beer?” her mistress asked her.
“Wee, maddum,” the maid replied, in her pretty War French. “I eat but a small.”
“Well, don't drop to pieces, that's all,” warned Warble. As to personal care and adornment the hitherto neglected education of Warble Petticoat was in Beer's hands. And she handed it out with unstinted lavishness.
That was the way things came to Warble; in slathers—in big fat chunks. In avalanches and rushing torrents.
Beer engineered all her new wardrobe, and received sealed proposals for its construction.
Beer taught her the mysteries of the toilette table, and once initiated into this entrancing art, Warble let herself go in the matter of cosmetics and make-ups, and could scarce wait for Beer's afternoon out, to dabble about by herself.
Beer taught her how to wear jewelry, and directed what pieces she should ask Petticoat for next.
Altogether, Warble was trying out things—but carefully, as a good housewife tries out lard.
And she was not yet certain as to the results. Environment has to reckon, now and then with heredity.