"You impudent, ungrateful, audacious—drab!"
Yes, drab was the word. I am shocked to say it, but the duties of a historian are stern; and the word was drab.
"Drab!" faltered poor Jane Fairfield; and she clutched hold of Leonard to save herself from falling.
"Sir!" cried Leonard, fiercely.
You might as well have cried "sir" to a mountain-torrent. Richard hurried on, for he was furious.
"You nasty, dirty, dusty dowdy! How dare you come here to disgrace me in my own house and premises, after my sending you fifty pounds? To take the very time, too, when—when—"
Richard gasped for breath; and the laugh of his guests rang in his ears, and got into his chest, and choked him. Jane Fairfield drew herself up, and her tears were dried.
"I did not come to disgrace you; I came to see my boy, and—"
"Ha!" interrupted Richard, "to see him."
He turned to Leonard: "You have written to this woman, then?"