"I can't do it, Howel," she confessed; "I speak to you as usual, or I can never get on. Saying many things in few words--if the ladies who assert our rights will forgive me for confessing it--is an accomplishment in which we are completely beaten by the men. You must have thought me rude, my dear, for leaving you very abruptly, without a word of explanation. The truth is, I had an idea in my head, and I kept it to myself (old people are proverbially cautious, you know) till I had first found out whether it was worth mentioning. When you were speaking of the wretched creature who had claimed Mrs. Evelin's husband as her own, you said she was an inveterate drunkard. A woman in that state of degradation is capable, as I persist in thinking, of any wickedness. I suppose this put it into my head to doubt her--no;I mean, to wonder whether Mr. Evelin--do you know that she keeps her husband's name by his own entreaty addressed to her on his deathbed?--oh, I am losing myself in a crowd of words of my own collecting! Say the rest of it for me, Sir Richard!""No, Lady Howel. Not unless you call me '****.' ""Then say it for me--****."
"No, not yet, on reflection. **** is too short, say 'Dear ****.'