"There is a vein of essential vulgarity in both the brothers," said the lady.
"I don't think so," returned the colonel; and there the conversation ended.
Adela was practising at her piano the greater part of the day. The weather would not admit of a walk.
When we were all seated once more for our reading and Mrs. Armstrong had her paper in her hand, after a little delay of apparent irresolution, she said all at once:
"Ralph, I can't read. Will you read it for me?"
"Do try to read it yourself, my dear," said her husband.
"I am sure I shall break down," she answered.
"If you were able to write it, surely you are able to read it," said the colonel. "I know what my difficulty would be."
"It is a very different thing to read one's own writing. I could read anything else well enough.—Will you read it for me, Henry?"
"With pleasure, if it must be any other than yourself. I know your handwriting nearly as well as my own. It's none of your usual lady-hands-all point and no character. But what do you say, Ralph?"