Smiling to herself as she saw him leaving without his hat, Zoie slipped it quickly beneath a flounce of her skirt. No sooner had Alfred reached the sill of the door than his hand went involuntarily to his head; he turned to the table where he had left his hat. His face wore a puzzled look. He glanced beneath the table, in the chair, behind the table, across the piano, and then he began circling the room with pent up rage. He dashed into his study and out again, he threw the chairs about with increasing irritation, then giving up the search, he started hatless toward the hallway. It was then that a soft babyish voice reached his ear. “Have you lost something, dear?” cooed Zoie. Alfred hesitated. It was difficult to lower his dignity by answering her, but he needed his headgear. “I want my hat,” he admitted shortly. “Your hat?” repeated Zoie innocently and she glanced around the room with mild interest. “Maybe Mary took it.” “Mary!” cried Alfred, and thinking the mystery solved, he dashed toward the inner hallway. “Let ME get it, dear,” pleaded Zoie, and she laid a small detaining hand upon his arm as he passed. “Stop it!” commanded Alfred hotly, and he shook the small hand from his sleeve as though it had been something poisonous. “But Allie,” protested Zoie, pretending to be shocked and grieved. “Don't you 'but Allie' me,” cried Alfred, turning upon her sharply. “All I want is my hat,” and again he started in search of Mary. “But--but--but Allie,” stammered Zoie, as she followed him. “But--but--but,” repeated Alfred, turning on her in a fury. “You've butted me out of everything that I wanted all my life, but you're not going to do it again.” “You see, you said it yourself,” laughed Zoie. “Said WHAT,” roared Alfred. “But,” tittered Zoie. The remnants of Alfred's self-control were forsaking him. He clinched his fists hard in a final effort toward restraint. “You'd just as well stop all these baby tricks,” he threatened between his teeth, “they're not going to work. THIS time my mind is made up.” “Then why are you afraid to talk to me?” asked Zoie sweetly. “Who said I was afraid?” demanded Alfred hotly. “You ACT like it,” declared Zoie, with some truth on her side. “You don't want----” she got no further. “All I want,” interrupted Alfred, “is to get out of this house once and for all and to stay out of it.” And again he started in pursuit of his hat. “Why, Allie,” she gazed at him with deep reproach. “You liked this place so much when we first came here.” Again Alfred picked at the lint on his coat sleeve. Edging her way toward him cautiously she ventured to touch his sleeve with the brush. “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.”