Ptomaine Street | Page 9

not, in accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, become warily regarded as a coherent symbol by one obviously of a trenchant humor. But, however, in proof of a smouldering discretion, no feature is entitled to less exorbitant honor than the unquenchable demand of endurance.
"Though, of course, other things being equal, and granting the investiture of all insensate communication, no feature is entitled, in accordance with what under no circumstances could be termed irrelevancy, to become warily regarded as a coherent symbol. And doubtless in proof of a smouldering discretion, and in accordance with one obviously of a trenchant humor, it may or may not be warily regarded.
"Though it cannot be denied that the true relevancy of thought to psychic action is largely dependent on the ever increasing forces of disregarded symbolisms. And this again proves the pantheistic power of doubt, considered for the moment and for the subtle purposes of our argument as faith. For, granting that two and two are six, the corollary reasoning must be that no premise is or may be capable of such conclusion as will render it sublunary to its agreed parallel.
"But this view is ultra and should be adopted with caution.
"We are therefore forced to the conclusion that pure altruism is impossible in connection with neo-psychology."
There was more, but it was at that point that Warble went to sleep.
She was awakened later by the high notes of a celebrated Metropolitan soprano, who had consented to exchange a few of her liquid notes for Goldwin Leathersham's yellow-backed ones.
Tired, hungry and sleepy, Warble fidgeted in her little gilt chair, but the music went inexorably on.
It was followed by the appearance of a Neo Poet.
This man wore eccentric dress of some sort, and as he waited for the applause to melt away, he stood, absent-mindedly picking crumbs out of his beard.
By subtle hint of auto-suggestion this made Warble hungrier than ever and she looked around for Petticoat. But he was busy flirting with Daisy Snow, and it was not Warble's way to cut in.
In hollow tones the performer read extracts, excerpts and exceptions from the works of Amy Lynn, Carl Sandpiper and Padriac, the Colyumist, and Warble went back to sleep.
There was more, but no merrier, and when at last the platform was cleared for the last time, the guests were refreshed by the passing of a small glass of punch and a wafer to each.
Then they went, with a flutter of silk stockings and twinkling slipper buckles, and a medley of shrieked goodbys.
Warble and Petticoat reached home.
"Howja like 'em?" he asked.
"I'm so hungry," she wailed.
"Oh, Warble, you ought to be more careful about eating in public. It isn't done. Watch Iva Payne--she doesn't."
"Oh, Bill--" Warble began to cry. "I want to go back to the restaurant--"
"No, no--now, Cream Puff, I didn't mean to lambaste you. But they're a smart crowd--"
Warble let two tears rest, glistening, in her lower eyelashes, rolled up her eyes, pulled down the corners of her hibiscus flower mouth, and waited to be kissed.
She was.
* * * * *
Up in Bill's bedroom. Gray silken walls, smoked pearl furniture, a built-in English bed, with gray draperies.
Through a cloth of silver portiére, a bathroom done in gray rough stone. Oxidized silver plumbing exposure.
No pictures on the walls, save one--a barbaric Russian panel by Larrovitch.
At the windows, layers of gauze, chiffon, silk--all gray.
A great circular divan was somewhere about, and as he sank down upon it and drew her with him into its engulfing down, he patched up the quarrel.
"They took to you," he said, "you went like hot cakes!"
It was an unfortunate allusion, and Warble, smiling with an engaging smile, wheedled, "Pleathe, pleathe--"
"No," Petticoat said, inexorably, "if you eat all the time you'll get to look like that soprano. Howja like that?"
"Do you care if I'm fat, Bill?"
"Me? Why, I wouldn't care if you were as big as a house. You're my--well, you're my soulmate."
"Oh, I'm so had and glappy! It's sweet to be yours. You must excuse my appetite--you're the only husband I have. My own Pill Betticoat!"
He kissed her in his eccentric fashion, and with her plump arms about his neck, she forgot all about Ptomaine Street.
CHAPTER VI
Warble's own maid was named Beer.
A French thing--so slim she seemed nothing but a spine, but supplied with slender, talkative arms and a pair of delicate silk legs that displayed more or less of themselves as the daily hint from Paris reported skirts going up or down as the case might be.
A scant black costume and a touch of white apron completed the picture, and Warble played with her as a child with a new doll.
Beer wanted to patronize Warble, tried to do so, but found it impossible. Her patronage rolled off of Mrs. Bill Petticoat like hard sauce off a hot