Ptomaine Street

She seemed more young and tender than ever, in a simple white muslin frock and blue sash. Her broad-leafed hat was decked with a few pink roses, and roll-top white socks added a good deal to the picture.

Petticoat was charmed.

"Golly, but I love you, Warble!" he cried.

She did not answer, but she touched the upper edge of the wallet in his breast pocket with an exploring gesture.

"You think I'm too darn aesthetic! Well, you're not, and so we ought to mate. We're complementary to one another, like air and sunshine or light and shade."

"Or pork and beans, or pie and cheese."

"Yes, or like stout and porter--I'll be the porter, oh--what's the use of talking? Let my lips talk to you!"

He kissed her cheek, imprinting thereon a Cupid's bow, by reason of his own addiction to the lipstick.

Warble rubbed it off with the back of her hand, and said, "Oh, pleathe--pleathe."