"Not for little gourmands," he took her in his arms. "I say, Warbie, you
promised to cut out sweets. Look here."

He led her to the picture gallery where his simpering or frowning
ancestors looked down in painted disapproval.

They were all slender--wasp-waisted ladies, long lean men. Not a fatty in
the bunch.

Big Bill said nothing, his painted morals adorned their own tale.

"I don't care!" Warble exploded, angrily. "If you don't give me enough to
eat, I'll leave your bed and board and put a notice in the paper. And you
needn't flaunt your Petticoats in my face! I don't care _that_ for them!"

She snapped a dimpled pink thumb and forefinger at the whole exhibit, made
a face at the skinniest one of all, and then sneaked casually into Bill's
arms.

"Nice, nice," she cooed, patting his mastoid process. "Run along now, and
I'll plan my party."

* * * * *

"That Boddy woman," remarked Beer, as she dressed Warble; "she is a pest--
a pill! Wait, Maddum, I beg you! I've only rouged one of your cheeks!"

"That's enough," said Warble, inattentively, and she danced down stairs to
freeze out her caller.