“But who WAS the man?” urged Aggie, and in her mind, she had already condemned him as a low, unprincipled creature.
“What does that matter?” asked Zoie impatiently. “It's ANY man with Alfred—you know that—ANY man!”
Aggie sank in a chair and looked at her friend in despair. “Why DO you do these things,” she said wearily, “when you know how Alfred feels about them?”
“You talk as though I did nothing else,” answered Zoie with an aggrieved tone. “It's the first time since I've been married that I've ever eaten lunch with any man but Alfred. I thought you'd have a little sympathy with me,” she whimpered, “instead of putting me on the gridiron like everyone else does.”
“Everyone else?” questioned Aggie, with recurring suspicion.
“I mean Alfred,” explained Zoie. “HE'S 'everyone else' to me.” And then with a sudden abandonment of grief, she threw herself prostrate at her friend's knees. “Oh, Aggie, what can I do?” she cried.
But Aggie was not satisfied with Zoie's fragmentary account of her latest escapade. “Is that the only thing that Alfred has against you?” she asked.
“That's the LATEST,” sniffled Zoie, in a heap at Aggie's feet. And then she continued in a much aggrieved tone, “You know he's ALWAYS rowing because we haven't as many babies as the cook has cats.”
“Well, why don't you get him a baby?” asked the practical, far-seeing Aggie.
“It's too late NOW,” moaned Zoie.