Another downpour of fate. And Warble, caught without an umbrella or rubbers.
The night came unheralded.
Petticoat had gone to Iva Payne's on an urgent summons—over-ripe sardines—and Warble had wandered out into the moonlight.
Petticoat, out of his new wealth, had, like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, a stately pleasure dome decreed, and in this new architectural triumph, where water lilies and swans floated on the surface of a deep black pool, Warble restlessly tossed in a welter of golden cushions, changing her position every ten seconds.
A giant lumbered in.
“Porgie!”
“Saw your husband speeding away—couldn't stand it, dropped in. Take me upstairs—I want to see your shoe cabinet.”
“Oh, don't spoil everything. Be my gentleman friend. Tell me about your dreams and ideals—your rags—”
“Ah—rags—you do love me!”
“I don't know—but I love rags—sweet—so sweet—”