Ptomaine Street | Page 6

she asked, a little disinterestedly, of
Warble.
"Yop," said Warble, and made a face at her.
"How quaint," said Iva.
"Whoopee, Baby! Here we are," and Petticoat rescued his bride from
the middle of a crowd and yanked her toward his car.
The car was a museum piece, and as Warble caromed into its cushions
she felt that her lines had fallen in pleasant places.
That was the way Fate came to Warble. In big fat chunks, in slathers.
Unexpected, sudden, inescapable--that's Fate all over.
"I shall like Mr. Leathersham--I shall call him Goldie. They're all nice
and friendly--the men. But this town! Oh, my Heavens! This Jewel
Casket--this Treasure Table! I can't live through it! This Floating Island
of a Tipsy Charlotte!" Her husband nudged her. "You look like you had
a pain," he said; "Scared? I don't expect you to fit in at first. You have
to get eased into things. It's different from Pittsburgh. But you'll come
to like it--love is so free here, and the smartest people on earth."
She winked at him. "I love you for your misunderstanding. I'm just

dog-tired. And too many chocolates. Give me a rest, dear. I'm all in
from wear sheeriness."
She laid her feet in his lap and snuggled into the corner of the
pearl-colored upholstery.
She was ready for her new home, beautiful, celebrated Ptomaine Haul.
Petticoat told her that his mother had been living with him, but had fled
incontinently on hearing a description of Warble.
The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a
corner and stopped under the porte cochère of a great house set in the
midst of a landscape.
Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves.
A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great porch,
and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield.
A great hall--at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the right,
a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride.
"You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is--in case you care to
rebuild or redecorate."
"It's a sweet home--" she was touched by his indifference. "So artistic."
Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, carelessly,
"Yes, home is where the art is," and let it go at that.
In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and
magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller
skates.
As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, she
quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth.
She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had realized
her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the final

close-up.
What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt,
and admire his rich and expensive clothing.
"Dear--so dear--" she murmured.
CHAPTER IV
"The Leathershams are giving a ball for us to-night," Petticoat said,
casually, as he powdered his nose in the recesses of his triplicate
mirror.
"A ball?"
"Oh, I don't mean a dance--I mean--er--well, what you'd call a sociable,
I suppose."
"Oh, ain't we got fun!"
"And, I say, Warble, I've got to chase a patient now; can you hike about
a bit by yourself?"
"Course I can. Who's your patient?"
"Avery Goodman--the rector of St. Judas' church. He will eat terrapin
made out of--you know what. And so, he's all tied up in knots with
ptomaine poisoning and I've got to straighten him out. It means a lot to
us, you know."
"I know; skittle."
Left alone, Warble proceeded systematically to examine the interior of
Ptomaine Haul. She gazed about her own bedroom and a small part of
its exquisite beauty dawned upon her. It was an exact copy of Marie
Antoinette's and the delicately carved furniture and pale blue
upholstery and hangings harmonized with the painted domed ceiling
and paneled walls.

The dressing table bore beautiful appointments of ivory, as solid as
Warble's own dome and from the Cupid-held canopy over the bed to
the embroidered satin foot-cushions, it was top hole.
The scent was of French powders, perfumes and essences and sachets,
such as Warble had not smelled since before the war.
"Can you beat it," she groaned. "How can I live with doodads like
this?" She saw the furniture as a circle of hungry restaurant customers
ready to eat her up. She kicked the dozen lace pillows off the head of
the bed.
"No utility anywhere," she cried. "Everything futile, inutile, brutal! I
hate it! I hate it! Why did I ever--"
And then she remembered she was a Petticoat now, a lace, frilled
Petticoat--not one of those that Oliver