Oxidized silver plumbing exposure.

No pictures on the walls, save one--a barbaric Russian panel by
Larrovitch.

At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk--all gray.

A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon it
and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the quarrel.

"They took to you," he said, "you went like hot cakes!"

It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging
smile, wheedled, "Pleathe, pleathe--"

"No," Petticoat said, inexorably, "if you eat all the time you'll get to
look like that soprano. Howja like that?"

"Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?"

"Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're my--well,
you're my soulmate."

"Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. 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.