“You ACT like it,” declared Zoie, with some truth on her side. “You don't want——” she got no further.
“All I want,” interrupted Alfred, “is to get out of this house once and for all and to stay out of it.” And again he started in pursuit of his hat.
“Why, Allie,” she gazed at him with deep reproach. “You liked this place so much when we first came here.”
Again Alfred picked at the lint on his coat sleeve. Edging her way toward him cautiously she ventured to touch his sleeve with the brush.
“I'll attend to that myself,” he said curtly, and he sank into the nearest chair to tie a refractory shoe lace.
“Let me brush you, dear,” pleaded Zoie. “I don't wish you to start out in the world looking unbrushed,” she pouted. Then with a sly emphasis she added teasingly, “The OTHER women might not admire you that way.”
Alfred broke his shoe string then and there. While he stooped to tie a knot in it, Zoie managed to perch on the arm of his chair.
“You know, Allie,” she continued coaxingly, “no one could ever love you as I do.”
Again Alfred broke his shoe lace.
“Oh, Allie!” she exclaimed with a little ripple of childish laughter, “do you remember how absurdly poor we were when we were first married, and how you refused to take any help from your family? And do you remember that silly old pair of black trousers that used to get so thin on the knees and how I used to put shoe-blacking underneath so the white wouldn't show through?” By this time her arm managed to get around his neck.