Barely had Alfred drawn his coat on his shoulders, when he was startled by a quick little flutter of the brush on his sleeve. He turned in surprise and beheld Zoie, who looked up at him as penitent and irresistible as a newly-punished child.
“Oh,” snarled Alfred, and he glared at her as though he would enjoy strangling her on the spot.
“Alfred,” pouted Zoie, and he knew she was going to add her customary appeal of “Let's make up.” But Alfred was in no mood for nonsense. He thrust his hands in his pockets and made straight for the outer doorway.
Smiling to herself as she saw him leaving without his hat, Zoie slipped it quickly beneath a flounce of her skirt. No sooner had Alfred reached the sill of the door than his hand went involuntarily to his head; he turned to the table where he had left his hat. His face wore a puzzled look. He glanced beneath the table, in the chair, behind the table, across the piano, and then he began circling the room with pent up rage. He dashed into his study and out again, he threw the chairs about with increasing irritation, then giving up the search, he started hatless toward the hallway. It was then that a soft babyish voice reached his ear.
“Have you lost something, dear?” cooed Zoie.
Alfred hesitated. It was difficult to lower his dignity by answering her, but he needed his headgear. “I want my hat,” he admitted shortly.
“Your hat?” repeated Zoie innocently and she glanced around the room with mild interest. “Maybe Mary took it.”
“Mary!” cried Alfred, and thinking the mystery solved, he dashed toward the inner hallway.
“Let ME get it, dear,” pleaded Zoie, and she laid a small detaining hand upon his arm as he passed.
“Stop it!” commanded Alfred hotly, and he shook the small hand from his sleeve as though it had been something poisonous.