“Bill, I've an idea! Build bureaus right down to the floor and then collar buttons can't roll under them!”
“Fine idea! Better patent it. Must go. Goodby.”
“Wait a minute. Mrs. Holm Boddy is coming to see me to-day. What's she like?”
“Oh, she's a hen-minded Hetty with cabriole legs. Don't bother with her much. They're lower case people—tin pergola and pebble garden sort. And early Victorian bathrooms. You won't like her—freeze her out.”
“All righty. Say—Billy dear—has you any choclums?”
“Not for little gourmands,” he took her in his arms. “I say, Warbie, you promised to cut out sweets. Look here.”
He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning ancestors looked down in painted disapproval.
They were all slender—wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a fatty in the bunch.
Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale.
“I don't care!” Warble exploded, angrily. “If you don't give me enough to eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And you needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care that for them!”