Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice—and perhaps she could reform that more easily than she could older people.
“All right,” she said, “and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns of shuffy fliffon—I mean, fliffy shuffon, no—shiffy fluffon—oh, pleathe—pleathe—”
Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, but Petticoat didn't notice her.
“I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard,” he mused, “he'll know. The last man I sent to Spain for a casemented façade, brought home a temple! But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run over just now—”
The baby was coming.
Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca Delia Robbia and Fra Angelico.
Also a few influential Madonnas.
The Butterflies came in with advice. Marigold Leathersham was dubious about the wisdom of the plan, but brought a pillow of antique rose point, filled with ostrich plumes.