On specified occasions of assembly at Knightswell, Ada did not ordinarily present herself. Mrs. Clarendon made excuses for her on the plea of indifferent health; habitual visitors understood that Miss Warren suffered much from headaches, and that she could not with impunity expose herself to unusual excitement. The headaches were a fact, but it was probably not on their account that Ada preferred as a rule her own company. Her frequent caustic utterances on the subject of the persons whom society considers, and the things with which society occupies itself, were a sufficient index of her views; the views themselves being a natural outcome of her temperament and the circumstances of her life. But on the present Monday she appeared. To the last moments Mrs. Clarendon had been in uncertainty as to the likelihood of her doing so, though she had laughingly prophesied the event to Rhoda Meres, and persisted in spite of the latter’s incredulity. Ada had made no great preparations, but was well and suitably dressed. Robert Asquith, to whom all the girl’s movements were of extreme interest, promised himself the pleasure of closely observing her throughout the afternoon. “Tell me something of the people who are coming, will you?” he asked, as he met her in the hall. “The interesting people, I mean, of course.” “That limitation will make the task an easy one,” Ada replied as she buttoned a glove. Her colour was rather higher than usual, and her tone was less dry; she looked almost cheerful. “Then of the less uninteresting; that will leave a margin for conversation, surely?” “It all depends, of course, on one’s point of view. I believe you have considerable powers of being interested, have you not?” “Yes; I fear I boast of them. You see I find the gift valuable. In my sane moods I had rather have the dullest conversation than none at all.” “Therefore you come to me, waiting for others to arrive.” “Spare me, Miss Warren. You wouldn’t believe what toil it costs me to frame and polish a compliment. I am sure you are naturally humane.” “You are sure of that? To dumb animals, I hope.” “Alas! it brings us back to the animals who are gifted with speech. Shall we have any one who talks well, independently of the matter of discourse? Remember, I am new to English society. I enjoy the gossip of idle people, provided it be good of its kind.” “I am no judge,” said Ada; “but I should think Mrs. Bruce Page will satisfy you. Her tongue is so trained in current forms of speech that it has come at last to save her all trouble of superintendence. As far as my experience goes, she is nearly all that the most exacting could require.” “I must study that lady. And what of Miss Saltash, of whom I have heard?” “Oh, _she_ is interesting!” Ada exclaimed. “I have seen her grow red in the face in support of faith in eternal damnation. If that goes, she has nothing to live for.”