Jimmy's lips puckered in a pout; he began to blink nervously. Aggie slipped her other arm about his neck.
“You know,” she continued with a baby whine, “I got Zoie into this, and I've just got to get her out of it. You're not going to desert me, are you, Jimmy? You WILL help me, won't you, dear?” Her breath was on Jimmy's cheek; he could feel her lips stealing closer to his. He had not been treated to much affection of late. His head drooped lower—he began to twiddle the fob on his watch chain. “Won't you?” persisted Aggie.
Jimmy studied the toes of his boots.
“Won't you?” she repeated, and her soft eyelashes just brushed the tip of his retrousee nose.
Jimmy's head was now wagging from side to side.
“Won't you?” she entreated a fourth time, and she kissed him full on the lips.
With a resigned sigh, Jimmy rose mechanically from the heap of crushed laundry and held out his fat chubby hand.
“Give me the letter,” he groaned.
“Here you are,” said Zoie, taking Jimmy's acquiescence as a matter of course; and she thrust the letter into the pocket of Jimmy's ulster. “Now, when you get back with the baby,” she continued, “don't come in all of a sudden; just wait outside and whistle. You CAN WHISTLE, can't you?” she asked with a doubtful air.
For answer, Jimmy placed two fingers between his lips and produced a shrill whistle that made both Zoie and Aggie glance nervously toward Alfred's bedroom door.