"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.
"Stop it!" shrieked Alfred as though mortal man could endure no
more. "You've used those trousers to settle every crisis in our
lives."
Zoie gazed at him without daring to breathe; even she was aghast
at his fury, but only temporarily. She recovered herself and
continued sweetly:
"If everything is SETTLED," she argued, "where's the harm in
talking?"
"We've DONE with talking," declared Alfred.
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