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. "From this on, I act."
And determined not to be cheated out of this final decision, he again
started for the hall door.
"Oh, Allie!" cried Zoie in a tone of sharp alarm.
In spite of himself Alfred turned to learn the cause of her anxiety.
"You haven't got your overshoes on," she said.
Speechless with rage, Alfred continued on his way, but Zoie moved before
him swiftly. "I'll get them for you, dear," she volunteered graciously.
"Stop!" thundered Alfred. They were now face to face.
"I wish you wouldn't roar like that," pouted Zoie, and the pink tips of
her fingers were thrust tight against her ears.
Alfred drew in his breath and endeavoured for the last time to repress
his indignation. "Either you can't, or you won't understand that it is
extremely unpleasant for me to even talk to you--much less to receive
your attentions."
"Very likely," answered Zoie, unperturbed. "But so long as I am your
lawful wedded wife----" she emphasised the "lawful"--"I shan't let any
harm come to you, if I can help it." She lifted her eyes to heaven
bidding it to bear witness to her martyrdom and looking for all the
world like a stained glass saint.
"Oh, no!" shouted Alfred, almost hysterical at his apparent failure to
make himself understood. "You wouldn't let any harm come to me. Oh, no.
You've only made me the greatest joke in Chicago," he shouted. "You've
only made me such a laughing stock that I have to leave it. That's
all--that's all!"