“That's what I said. Have a party.”
“I will. And it will be part of the reform. These people are too highbrow. Too soulful. Too artistic—”
“Warble! How many times have I told you never to use that word! Now, look here, if you want to play at reforming, go ahead, nobody will interfere with you. But where'll you get time? You spend most of your waking hours in slumber, and the rest, eating. You're a sweet, lovely, cuddly thing, but if you keep on, some day you'll find you can't get your kimono together.”
“Then I'll wear two. But, Bill, I'm not so big, you know.”
Warble up, and parading the room with a martial air.
“You're a perfect Bellona!” Petticoat said, smiling at her.
“A Bologna! Oh, you horrid thing! But that reminds me I haven't had sausage lately. I must speak to cook. Now, about my party.”
“Have a good one while you're about it. I might import a Spanish Ballet—”
“You might do nothing of the sort! This is to be my party, and I shall run it to suit myself.”
“All right, Tutti Frutti; you have no subtlety or poetry in your soul—indeed, I doubt if you have a soul—but you're a dear and a sweet—”