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Updated: May 15, 2025
"What use is it?" Aunt Dressie stared at her. "What use are you?" she said. Warble's brain stopped beating. Bump. What use was she she, the utilitarian, the efficient, the practical! What use? Grrrhhh! She'd show 'em! The silly bunch! Not one of them could put together the dissected beef picture in the cook-book if the cuts were separated! "I don't care! I won't endure it!
Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called Seven Hills. Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of Constantine and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the entrance patio. "Hello, Pot Pie," screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, "come on in, the firewater's fine."
His arm is round her soft neck, his hand holds her dimpled chin. With a little sigh, Warble's blue eyes close, her scarlet lips part and though she wants to struggle she dare not, For he is a determined man, and a dentist will have his fill. Petticoat came to see her in Hoboken after she had been there a year.
Cut out the rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest." It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their terrible aestheticism at last? Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. "Oh," she cried, astounded.
Yet: A glorious soft summer afternoon. Warble alone in a room with a big, forceful looking man. The door is closed, and the gentle breeze scarce stirs the opaque white curtains. In the depths of a great arm-chair, Warble, her lovely head upturned sees the eager, earnest face of the man. Closer he draws and a faint pink flush dyes Warble's cheek.
By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever and she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy Snow, and it was not Warble's way to cut in. In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, and Warble went back to sleep.
"It's pie," said Warble, "he's very fond of it." To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final entertainment. "Folks," she said, "this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides." Judge Drinkwater and Goldwin Leathersham were made captains and they chose sides.
You must excuse my appetite you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!" He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street. Warble's own maid was named Beer.
The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to the embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole. The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets, such as Warble had not smelled since before the war. "Can you beat it," she groaned. "How can I live with doodads like this?"
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 facade, 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.
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