‘Well, no,’ Eleanor admitted, secretly more and more surprised and amused. ‘Is she like this by nature, or has Miss Wynter petted her till she has got such ideas into her head?’ Meantime, Ada, secretly much elated, wished very much that some one would come by and see her seated side by side with Miss Askam, who, it was evident, was quite pleased to see her. She was accustomed to be treated very differently by Magdalen, who talked to her as if she had been a child, snubbed her, and sent her running to fetch and carry, while she encouraged her to come, and said she could not do without her. Magdalen, as Ada knew, valued her at no very high figure; Miss Askam, she fancied, mistook her for a lady. For poor Ada, with all her vanity, was so keenly conscious of not being a lady, so well aware that something was wanting to make her into one—a really fashionable milliner, probably, or a course of visiting amongst stylish people. So she behaved now with a perkish flippancy, intended to show that she was as well aware of her own claims to distinction as any one else could be, which, indeed, was very emphatically the case. Ada had a book in her hand, or rather a paper number of a newspaper or journal. ‘Were you reading as you took your walk?’ asked Eleanor. ‘Yes, I was,’ and she displayed the title-page of the periodical, with a sensational engraving on it, and the title, _Genteel Journal_. ‘Oh dear!’ Eleanor could not help saying; ‘are you fond of reading?’ ‘Very, some sorts of reading. I like the stories in the _Genteel Journal_, and the poetry too. Have you read “The Earl’s Caprice”?’ ‘No,’ said Eleanor, much interested, and wondering what further developments the conversation would take. ‘Is that a story?’ ‘Yes, indeed, a most delightful one. It is running now in the _Journal_, and leaves off at such an exciting part. They always do.’ ‘Who is the author?’ ‘Miss Laura Loveday. Don’t you think her stories are very pretty?’ ‘I’m afraid I am very ignorant, for I never heard of her before.’ ‘You do surprise me. There’s lovely poetry in this paper too. Augustus Sprout writes a good deal for it. You will know his poetry, I daresay.’ ‘I must plead guilty to having never heard of either him or his poems.’ ‘Dear me, how odd! The _Genteel Journal_ published a sketch of his life a little while ago. It was like a novel to read it.’ ‘Since you are so fond of stories, of course you are acquainted with the classics amongst our novelists,—Thackeray, Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, and all the other great names?’ ‘Classics!’ cried Ada, not answering the question. ‘Oh, I know what classics are. Roger—Mr. Camm, that is, you know—is always telling me I should read this and that and the other, because they are classics. I know I never tried a classic yet that wasn’t awfully dry—yes, awfully.’ ‘Perhaps you haven’t ever really tried.’