‘Yes, I am quite sure of it,’ she said, in the same straightforward, earnest way. ‘I think you ought to be very proud that he has chosen you; and as for giving up reading things which he disapproves of, you surely cannot hesitate about that. You must know that he is very clever, and has had a great deal more experience than you have.’ ‘Oh yes.’ Ada was quite ready to own that. It was what she was quite sure of. The only thing was, she was not sure that cleverness and experience, like Roger’s, made their owners altogether more agreeable. At any rate, they became oppressive when frequently used to point out to her her shortcomings. That was not her idea of the functions of a lover; it was not the way in which the heroes in Laura Loveday’s novels behaved. Those gentlemen had eyes of fire and lips of flame; they always managed to appear suddenly by moonlight, and the scenery in which they moved always happened to be of a picturesque kind,—balconies and verandahs forming a great feature in every landscape. They never alluded to Macaulay’s ‘History;’ and while Roger had once told her how glad he was that she had discarded her chignon, which he went so far as to characterise as a ‘nasty lump,’ Miss Loveday’s heroes were in the habit of pushing back the tresses from their mistress’s brows, and murmuring words of adoration in her ears. Yet here was Miss Askam telling her she ought to be proud to be loved by this fault-finding man; perhaps she ought to be proud even of being found fault with. She would ask; and she did. ‘But, Miss Askam, Roger is always picking holes in what I do. It isn’t in books alone, but about everything, and always—at least, very often. I suppose I ought to be proud of that, too, since he’s so very clever, you say.’ ‘You say!’ Eleanor perceived from these words that she had wasted her breath, and privately felt that it served her right for ever entering into such a discussion. But Ada was looking at her with intense earnestness, and Eleanor asked, ‘Do you really wish me to give you my opinion on such a subject?’ ‘Indeed, I wish you would.’ ‘Well, in a way, I think you ought to be proud to be even found fault with by him. He would not do it if he did not care very much for you, and also feel sure that you had it in you to grow into something higher and better.’ ‘Well, I don’t know. Roger was satisfied enough when I said I would have him,’ said Ada, discontentedly. ‘But,’ said Eleanor, the slow, deep blush coming over her face, and hesitating as she spoke, ‘if you love him very much, as of course you do——?’ ‘I—oh yes, I’m very fond of him, of course,’ said Ada, unwillingly. ‘Then you won’t be satisfied with yourself, I should think, but will want to rise higher and become better and better, so as to be more worthy of him.’