Alfred drew in his breath and endeavoured for the last time to repress his indignation. “Either you can't, or you won't understand that it is extremely unpleasant for me to even talk to you—much less to receive your attentions.”
“Very likely,” answered Zoie, unperturbed. “But so long as I am your lawful wedded wife——” she emphasised the “lawful”—“I shan't let any harm come to you, if I can help it.” She lifted her eyes to heaven bidding it to bear witness to her martyrdom and looking for all the world like a stained glass saint.
“Oh, no!” shouted Alfred, almost hysterical at his apparent failure to make himself understood. “You wouldn't let any harm come to me. Oh, no. You've only made me the greatest joke in Chicago,” he shouted. “You've only made me such a laughing stock that I have to leave it. That's all—that's all!”
“Leave Chicago!” exclaimed Zoie incredulously. Then regaining her self-composure, she edged her way close to him and looked up into his eyes in baby-like wonderment. “Why, Allie, where are we going?” Her small arm crept up toward his shoulder. Alfred pushed it from him rudely.
“WE are not going,” he asserted in a firm, measured voice. “I am going. Where's my hat?” And again he started in search of his absent headgear.
“Oh, Allie!” she exclaimed, and this time there was genuine alarm in her voice, “you wouldn't leave me?”
“Wouldn't I, though?” sneered Alfred. Before he knew it, Zoie's arms were about him—she was pleading desperately.
“Now see here, Allie, you may call me all the names you like,” she cried with great self-abasement, “but you shan't—you SHAN'T go away from Chicago.”
“Oh, indeed?” answered Alfred as he shook himself free of her. “I suppose you'd like me to go on with this cat and dog existence. You'd like me to stay right here and pay the bills and take care of you, while you flirt with every Tom, Dick and Harry in town.”
“It's only your horrid disposition that makes you talk like that,” whimpered Zoie. “You know very well that I never cared for anybody but you.”