"Indeed I will not!" cried Theodora playfully, still holding on to the poodle, and taking the paper out of his hands almost before he knew it.
Sir John frowned and then smiled. His American wife had certain ways that baffled him. She was always amiable, gay, and affectionate, but she took a tone toward him which startled while it amused him; and then her surprising glibness, her humor, her propensity to make small, though admirable jokes, her way of looking at life from the comic side, was astonishing, not to say appalling. Sir John wondered sometimes if American men were subject to much of this sort of thing.
"No," kept on Theodora, with a pretty grimace, and pinching the poodle, "you positively shan't read the paper. I want you to talk to me and Hector."
"What about?" asked Sir John, still half frowning. Theodora went up close to him and standing on tip-toe, with one arm yet around the poodle, leaned forward and putting two rosy fingers under her husband's chin said coquettishly:
"About that closet over yonder, where people say you keep your murdered wives. Don't we, Hector?"
"Yap! yap!" went the poodle.
The change that came over Sir John's face at these words was indescribable. He started to his feet, his face black with rage, his eyes flaming as he seized Theodora violently by the arm.
"How dare you?" he yelled, almost frothing at the mouth.
"How dare I?" asked Theodora, carefully putting the poodle in Sir John's vacant chair. "Now, keep quiet, Hector. Because I want to know and I'm going to find out."