where Petticoat lived, was a veritable Utopia, Arcadia, Spotless Town and
Happy Valley all rolled into one. Broad streets, arching trees, sublimated
houses, glorified shops--it seemed to Warble like a flitter-work Christmas
card from the drug-store.

"How'd you like to scoot up there with me in a fast aeroplane?" he jollied
her.

"It might be--a lark--" she dubioused.

"But here's the picture!" and proudly he exhibited a full length view of
his own home.

"Ptomaine Haul," he exploited, proudly. "Built every inch of it from the
busy little ptomaines. Coral insects nothing on that, eh? And here's the
sort of people I practice on. Old Leathersham, now--he has a corking
chateau--French Renaissance. And Mrs. Charity Givens--she has a Georgian
shack. And, oh, yes, here's Iva Payne. She's one of my most profitable
patients--sick all the time."

Warble studied the pictures.

"What expensive people," she said, "dear--so dear."

"Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come on,
Warble, will you?"

"Yop," she murmured, from his coat pocket, "Sweet, so sweet."