CHAPTER X
The mail.
The Petticoats rarely received mail. It wasn't done much in Butterfly Center. So unaesthetic.
On a tray, a lacquered lackey brought a letter to Warble.
A white letter. Large and square—ominously square.
Warble took tray and all and went with it to Petticoat's rooms—the letter was addressed to him.
She tapped but there was no answer. Listening at the door, she could hear him splashing in his rock-hewn bath and leaping, chamois-like, from crag to crag of his quarried bathroom.
She sat down on the floor and waited. Petticoat's toilets were like linked sweetness, long drawn out.