‘Oh yes, I have. He does like such very dry books. I lent him one of Laura Loveday’s novels, one day—not the “Earl’s Caprice,” but another, “The Fate of the Falconers,” it was called. It is such a pretty story, all about how a very old family were saved from ruin by the eldest son’s clandestine marriage with quite a poor, obscure girl, but very beautiful, of course. Well, Roger brought it back very soon, and said it was worse than silly, it was nasty—fancy, accusing me of reading nasty things, Miss Askam! And he wondered how I could pollute my mind with such stuff.’ ‘Well?’ said Eleanor, with deep interest. ‘And he wanted me to promise never to read any more of Laura Loveday’s novels. Just fancy!’ ‘And I am sure you did promise,’ said Eleanor, gently. ‘Not I, indeed!’ retorted Ada, tossing her head; and then, seeing that Miss Askam’s eyes were fixed very gravely upon her, she reddened, and added, with some confusion— ‘Well, there, I did promise. He was so very urgent about it.’ ‘I thought you would. I am sure Mr. Camm was quite right. And I am sure you will be all the better for not reading any more of Miss Loveday’s novels. Even if you read nothing else, it would be better not to read them.’ Ada fumbled for some little time with a massive silver watch-chain, and then said slowly— ‘Miss Askam, don’t you be shocked, but I have read some more of them—two of them. I did not tell Roger, because I knew he’d never ask me. He doesn’t really care about it, you know; it’s only that he hasn’t a head for stories, and that sort of thing; and he thinks every one else can care for the same dry things that he likes. I did try to read Macaulay’s “History,” but it was no use. What do I care for such things—things that happened hundreds and thousands of years ago——’ She saw a startled expression upon her auditor’s face, and went on: ‘There, I see I’m all wrong; but I did hate it so, that I can’t even remember what it was about, nor when it all happened. I can’t read such books, and that’s all about it; and yet, something I must have to read.’ ‘Oh, I am so sorry that you did read those two other books!’ exclaimed Eleanor, earnestly. And Ada Dixon thought how very odd she was, and not anything like as nice as Miss Wynter. Miss Wynter always encouraged her to talk about the novels of Laura Loveday, or about the poems of Augustus Sprout, or, indeed, about anything and everything that came into her head. Remembering this, and feeling that it was impossible for any one to know better about things than Miss Wynter, she took courage, and said— ‘Well, but, Miss Askam, I don’t see that Roger has a right to dictate things of that kind to me, especially when I’m not interested in the things that interest him. Miss Wynter always asks me all about the novels, and poetry, and things, and she says it amuses her immensely to hear about them.’