and knees.

It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, dead
these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a _chaise longue_,
absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more hair out of
each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely architectural
viewpoint.

"What's the trouble?" Warble asked, "broken down arches?"

"Nope, guess they're all right."

"Say, Bill," and she crept into the hollow of his chest, "are folks
talking about me?"

"They sure are."

"What do they say?"

"Well, I hate to stir up trouble, but since you began it, I may as well
own up they think you're just about as lowbrow as they come. And I s'pose
you are."

"Oh, well. And what about the girls? Are they jealous of me?"

"Sort of. Lotta says if you cut her out with Trymie Icanspoon, she'll
elope with me."

"And will she?"