"You shall not take her!" Azalea looked like an angry tigress.
"Gee! Wish I had you on the screen like that! You're some picture!"
"Please, Mr. Merritt," Azalea tried coaxing again, "please believe me,—I can't take Fleurette again. Her mother—why, Mr. Merritt, you have children of your own—"
"Sure I have! That's how I know how to treat 'em so well. If mine were only small enough, I wouldn't need this little cutie. Well, here goes, then!"
This time he laid such a definite hold on the baby, that Azalea could scarcely keep the child in her own arms.
In her utter desperation, a new idea struck her. She would try strategy.
"Oh, don't!" she cried, "rather than have you touch her, I'll go—I'll take her. Let me get her cap and coat."
"Where are they?" he asked, suspiciously.
"Right here, in the library,—just across the hall."
"Go on, then,—I trust you, 'cause I think you're sensible. I'd go along and keep you in sight, but I want to keep watch if anybody comes. But you sing, or whistle or something, so's I'll know you're right there."