Dispatching his man to get them and to
meet him at the station with them, he collected a few remaining
letters from the drawer of the writing table, then uneasy at
remaining longer under the same roof with Zoie, he picked up his
hat, and started toward the hallway. For the first time his eye
was attracted by a thick layer of dust and lint on his coat
sleeve. Worse still, there was a smudge on his cuff. If there
was one thing more than another that Alfred detested it was
untidiness. Putting his hat down with a bang, he tried to flick
the dust from his sleeve with his pocket handkerchief; finding
this impossible, he removed his coat and began to shake it
violently.
It was at this particular moment that Zoie's small face appeared
cautiously from behind the frame of the bedroom door. She was
quick to perceive Alfred's plight. Disappearing from view for an
instant, she soon reappeared with Alfred's favourite
clothes-brush. She tiptoed into the room.
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.
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