There was a short silence; the two women gazed at Jimmy in despair. Remembering a fresh grievance, Jimmy turned upon them.
“By the way,” he said, “do you two know that I haven't had anything to eat yet?”
“And do you know,” said Zoie, “that Alfred may be back at any minute? He can't stay away forever.”
“Not unless he has cut his throat,” rejoined Jimmy, “and that's what I'd do if I had a razor.”
Zoie regarded Jimmy as though he were beyond redemption. “Can't you ever think of anybody but yourself?” she asked, with a martyred air.
Had Jimmy been half his age, Aggie would have felt sure that she saw him make a face at her friend for answer. As it was, she resolved to make one last effort to awaken her unobliging spouse to a belated sense of duty.
“You see, dear,” she said, “you might better get the washerwoman's baby than to go from house to house for one,” and she glanced again toward the paper.
“Yes,” urged Zoie, “and that's just what you'll HAVE to do, if you don't get this one.”
Jimmy's head hung dejectedly. It was apparent that his courage was slipping from him. Aggie was quick to realise her opportunity, and before Jimmy could protect himself from her treacherous wiles, she had slipped one arm coyly about his neck.
“Now, Jimmy,” she pleaded as she pressed her soft cheek to his throbbing temple, and toyed with the bay curl on his perspiring forehead, “wont you do this little teeny-weepy thing just for me?”