No oral observations, but the next day an antique Florentine chest, carved by Dante, replaced the box.
“Just as utile,” Bill remarked, “and a lot more expensive. Kiss me.”
That is the way the Petticoats of this world decree, and that is the way the Warbles submit.
That Thursday afternoon she was in love with her husband. She toddled into his room to talk to him. She was in pastel chiffon boudoir jambiéres picked out with rosebuds. She sat, cross-legged, on one of his gray satin floor pillows and looked up at him.
Petticoat was just going out and he sat before the mirror, earnestly adjusting a hair net over his permanent.
“Hello, Fruit Mousse,” he said, half absent-mindedly, as he went on adjusting.
Big Bill Petticoat was far from being effeminate. He was found of aesthetics and anaesthetics, and his chief interests in life were beauty and his big bills.
“What's the use of beauty, if a thing isn't useful?” Warble would ask, and Petticoat would reply, “What's the use of use, anyway? There's no use in having anything that isn't beautiful.”
And as the house was under Petticoat rule, Big Bill won out.
“You must have a party, Warble,” Petticoat said, as he fitted a long, slim cigarette into a long, slim holder.