“Now, Alfred,” pleaded Zoie, “don't get excited; he's all right.”
“How do you know?” asked the distracted father.
Zoie did not know, but at that moment her eyes fell upon Jimmy, and as usual he was the source of an inspiration for her.
“Jimmy never cared for the other one,” she said, “did you, Jimmy?”
Alfred turned to the officer, with a tone of command. “Wait,” he said, then he started toward the bedroom door to make sure that his other boy was quite safe. The picture that confronted him brought the hair straight up on his head. True to her promise, and ignorant of Jimmy's return with the first baby, Aggie had chosen this ill-fated moment to appear on the threshold with one babe on each arm.
“Here they are,” she said graciously, then stopped in amazement at sight of the horrified Alfred, clasping a third infant to his breast.
“Good God!” exclaimed Alfred, stroking his forehead with his unoccupied hand, and gazing at what he firmly believed must be an apparition, “THOSE aren't MINE,” he pointed to the two red mites in Aggie's arms.
“Wh—why not, Alfred?” stammered Aggie for the want of something better to say.
“What?” shrieked Alfred. Then he turned in appeal to his young wife, whose face had now become utterly expressionless. “Zoie?” he entreated.
There was an instant's pause, then the blood returned to Zoie's face and she proved herself the artist that Alfred had once declared her.