“Go!” I said, laughing at her in a most tantalizing way, while she struggled in vain to set herself free.
“Tell me what you were talking about. I insist on knowing, Clide!” repeated Isabel, stamping her foot like a naughty child.
I began to dread a repetition of the other morning. Such an exhibition within hearing of my uncle and Sir Simon would have been so mortifying to my pride that I was ready to sign away my lawful authority for the rest of my married life rather than undergo it; so pretending not to notice the gathering thunder-clouds:
“My lovely tyrant!” I said, caressing her with the sweetest of smiles, as we walked past the drawing-room window, “you don't suspect me of having a secret my wife should not share? I was only chaffing you just now for fun, you looked so mystified. But the fact is, I was put out by the old lady's telling me she expected Simpson down here to-day.”
“And who is Simpson?” inquired Isabel.
“The family lawyer.”
“Ah! Did you tell her to send for him?”
“I tell her! Why, child, if I had, I shouldn't have been put out to hear he was coming.”
The question was unpleasantly suggestive. It implied a suspicion in her mind, which something in my tone resented, probably, for she added quickly:
“Oh! of course not. I didn't mean that.”