He danced about the room, in his blue burnous and red tarbush, looking more
like a howling dervish than a tempestuous Petticoat.

Warble thought a minute. A baby would be nice--and perhaps she could reform
that more easily than she could older people.

"All right," she said, "and I'll have beautiful gaternity mowns of
shuffy fliffon--I mean, fliffy shuffon, no--shiffy fluffon--oh,
pleathe--pleathe--"

Warble's tongue always misbehaved when she was excited or embarrassed, but
Petticoat didn't notice her.

"I can send Roscoe Rococo after that Courtyard," he mused, "he'll know. The
last man I sent to Spain for a casemented facade, brought home a temple!
But Roscie knows, and he'll do it proper. I don't want to run over just
now--"

* * * * *

The baby was coming.

Warble reveled in infant layettes and her own layouts for lying in. She
sank deeper and deeper in a sea of baby-clothes, down pillows and orris
powder. Nursery quarters were added to the house, influenced by Lucca Delia
Robbia and Fra Angelico.

Also a few influential Madonnas.

* * * * *