As a matter of fact, Alfred was no longer seeking an alternative.
He was again under the spell of his wife's adorable charms and he
kissed her not once, but many times.
"Foolish child," he murmured, then he laid her tenderly against
the large white pillows, remonstrating with her for being so
spoiled, and cautioning her to be a good little girl while he
went again to see about Baby.
Zoie clung to his hand and feigned approaching tears.
"You aren't thinking of me at all?" she pouted. "And kisses are
no good unless you put your whole mind on them. Give me a real
kiss!" she pleaded.
Again Alfred stooped to humour the small importunate person who
was so jealous of his every thought, but just as his lips touched
her forehead his ear was arrested by a sound as yet new both to
him and to Zoie. He lifted his head and listened.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I don't know," answered Zoie, wondering if the cat could have
got into the room.
A redoubled effort on the part of the young stranger directed
their attention in the right direction.
"My God!" exclaimed Alfred tragically, "it's Baby. He's crying."
And with that, he rushed to the crib and clasped the small mite
close to his breast, leaving Zoie to pummel the pillows in an
agony of vexation.
After vain cajoling of the angry youngster, Alfred bore him
excitedly to Zoie's bedside.
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