with her home.

In her pride of being a Petticoat she loved every detail of Ptomaine Haul.
Yet she knew it did not express herself, it was not the keynote of her own
Warbling personality.

What to do.

She sat in her boudoir, its mauve walls and gold Japanese screens
backgrounding her plump prettiness, as she lolled on a gold brocade
_chaise longue_.

She glanced out at the peacocks strutting in the Italian garden and
listened to the rooks cawing in the cypresses between the marble urns on
the terrace steps.

It was a big proposition to change all that. To turn the bird sticks into
pruning hooks and the bird baths into plowshares.

Could she do it?

Doubtful.

She went out into the hall and looked over the rail of the great rotunda.
Rugs hung from the rail, as it might be a Turkish Monday.

Below, she could see the lake in the front hall, also she could glimpse
the armored bronze Petticoats guarding the entrance that led to the
corridor that led to the hall leading into the dining-room.