Undisciplined."

Stella Croyle hardly knew in her passion what she was saying, and
Luttrell could only wait in silence for the storm to pass. It passed
with a quickness which caught him at loss; so quickly she swept from
mood to mood.

He heard her voice at his ear, remorseful and most appealing. "Oh, Wub,
what have I done that you should treat me so?"

Sir Charles Hardiman, watchful of the duel, guessed from the movement of
her lips what she was saying.

"These nicknames are the very devil," he exclaimed, apparently about
nothing, to his startled neighbour. "The first thing a woman does when
she's fond of a man is to give him some ridiculous name, which doesn't
belong to him. She worries her wits trying this one and that one, as a
tailor tries on you a suit of clothes, and when she has got your fit,
she uses it--publicly. So others use it too and so it no longer contents
her. Then she invents a variation, a nickname within a nickname, and
that she keeps to herself, for her own private use. That's the nickname
I am referring to, my dear, when I say it's the very devil."

The lady to whom he spoke smiled vaguely and surmised that he might be
very right. For herself, she said, she had invented no nicknames; which
was to assert that she had never been in love. For the practice seems
invariable, and probably Dido in times long since gone by had one for
Æneas, and Virgil knew all about it. But since she was a woman, it would
be a name at once so absurd and so intimate that it would never have
gone with the dignified rhythm of the hexameter. "Wobbles" had been the