Warble, sitting on the other end of the now separated chaise longue made no reply, except to scratch her leg a little.
Petticoat yawned, took a stroll round the room, tried on a new dressing gown, mixed himself a highball, smoked three cigarettes, glanced through “What the Swell-dressed Man can Spare,” wound his watch, put out his Angora cat, yawned again, sneezed twice, stomped out in the hall and back, and then went and stood in front of the fireplace, teetering on his heels.
But until he bawled, “Aren't you ever going to clear out?” she sat, unmoving.
CHAPTER IX
Lotta Munn ran in occasionally. She was of the anecdotal type. The stories she told made one gasp. They were always prefaced by an “Oh, my dear, I can't tell you that one—it's too awful!”
Warble didn't care much for these tales, indeed, frequently missed the point, and laughed purely from a sense of duty.
As she observed to Petticoat, one day, in exasperation, “There are only two classes of women in this world—women who tell naughty stories, and women I have never met!”
Also Lotta Munn was by way of being complimentary. She told Warble that old Leathersham thought her a peach, and that Trymie Icanspoon declared he was going to make love to her.