* * * * *

It was her last effort to cure her husband of culture poisoning, but she
was not yet ready to give up her big idea of reforming Butterfly Center.

Warble was a determined little person, and, too, fate often gave her a good
boost, and she thought one was about due.

* * * * *

She went to the Toddletopsis Club, at Lotta Munn's.

Lotta had inherited eight or ten town and country houses, and for the
moment was perched like a bird of passage, on her Roman villa, called Seven
Hills.

Warble's little electric Palanquin rolled through the arch of Constantine
and she ascended the dazzling flight of marble steps to the entrance patio.

"Hello, Pot Pie," screamed Lotta, by way of greeting, "come on in, the
firewater's fine."

It was, and there was lots of it, and a group of long silk-legged
Butterflies were sprawled on the Roman couches, smoking and chatting as
they spun the Toddletops.

Warble was unfamiliar with the teetotum-like things, but the others kindly
instructed her. Moreover, there was a roulette wheel and some other devices
of which our litle heroine didn't even know the name.