“Black–spangled hen has broken her eggs. Nothing more,” said Eoa. “De–ar, oh we do love you so!” She made two syllables of that word, as Mrs. Corklemore used to do, in her many gushing moments. Georgie looked at Eoa with wonder. She had stupidly thought her a stupid.
Then Sir Cradock Nowell rose, in a stately manner, to put an end to all this little nonsense.
“My niece, Eoa, declares, Mrs. Corklemore, that you, in some underhand manner, have promoted a horrible charge against my poor son Cradock, a charge which no person in any way connected with our family should ever dare to utter, even if he or she believed its justice, far less dare to promulgate, and even force into the courts of law. Is this so, or is it not?”
“Oh, Uncle Cradock, how can you speak so? What charge should I ever dream of?”
“See how her hands are trembling, and how white her lips are; not with telling black lies, Uncle Cradock, but with being found out.”
“Eoa, have the kindness not to interrupt again.”
“Very well, Uncle Cradock; I wonʼt, unless you make me.”
“Then, as I understand, madam, you deny entirely the truth of this accusation?”
“Of course I do, most emphatically. What can you all be dreaming about?”
“Now, Eoa, it is your turn to establish what you have said.”