“Before we were married,” he continued, “you pretended to adore children. You started your humbugging the first day I met you. I refer to little Willie Peck.”
A hysterical giggle very nearly betrayed her. Alfred continued:
“I was fool enough to let you know that I admire women who like children. From that day until the hour that I led you to the altar, you'd fondle the ugliest little brats that we met in the street, but the moment you GOT me——”
“Alfred!” gasped Zoie. This was really going too far.
“Yes, I repeat it!” shouted Alfred, pounding the table with his fist for emphasis. “The moment you GOT me, you declared that all children were horrid little insects, and that someone ought to sprinkle bug-powder on them.”
“Oh!” protested Zoie, shocked less by Alfred's interpretation of her sentiments, than by the vulgarity with which he expressed them.
“On another occasion,” declared Alfred, now carried away by the recital of his long pent up wrongs, “you told me that all babies should be put in cages, shipped West, and kept in pens until they got to be of an interesting age. 'Interesting age!'” he repeated with a sneer, “meaning old enough to take YOU out to luncheon, I suppose.”
“I never said any such thing,” objected Zoie.
“Well, that was the idea,” insisted Alfred. “I haven't your glib way of expressing myself.”
“You manage to express yourself very well,” retorted Zoie. “When you have anything DISAGREEABLE to say. As for babies,” she continued tentatively, “I think they are all very well in their PLACE, but they were NEVER meant for an APARTMENT.”