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Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger days had been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she flibbered differently now. She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. wing, and permeated the household. Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits.
It made Warble writhe to see the devastated envelope she always slit them neatly with a paper-knife but she was thrilled by Petticoat's excitement. "A fortune!" he exclaimed. "My revered ancestor, the oldest of the Cotton-Petticoats, has died and left all his wealth to me! A windfall! Now we can afford to have a baby and get over the Moorish Courtyard, too! Oh, Warble, ain't we got fun!"
Intermarriage linked the two, and the Cotton-Petticoats crowded all other ancient and honorable names off the map of Connecticut and nodded condescendingly to the Saltonwells and Hallistalls. Abbotts and Cabots tried to patronize them, but the plain unruffled Cotton-Petticoats held their peace and their position. The present scion, Dr.
The Cotton-Petticoats have always been called good providers " "It isn't that, Bill, dear it's that you don't love me very much " Petticoat looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down from her golden curls to her golden slippers, and then crossways, from one plump shoulder to the other. "Goodby, Warble," he said. That's the way things came to Warble. Freedom!
And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled Petticoat not one of those that Oliver Herford so pathetically dubbed "the short and simple flannels of the poor." Yes, she was now a Petticoat one of the aristocratic Cotton-Petticoats, washable, to be sure, but a dressy Frenchy Petticoat, and as such she must take her place on the family clothesline.
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