“Ada never goes out with us,” was Mrs. Clarendon’s answer as she took the reins and prepared to drive.
There was no additional guest at dinner; the evening was helped along by Rhoda’s playing and singing. Her voice was good, and she had enjoyed good teaching; this at Mrs. Clarendon’s expense. It was one of many instances in which Isabel had helped her friends the Meres, her aid being given in a manner of which she alone had the secret—irresistible, warm-hearted, delicate beyond risk of offence. Ada sat in the room, but, as usual, had a book in her hands.
“You read much,” said Robert, seating himself beside her and perforce obtaining her attention.
“It is a way of getting through life,” the girl replied, rather less abruptly than she had hitherto spoken.
“That means that life is not quite so attractive to you as it might be?” he returned, under the cover of the music which had just begun.
“I doubt whether life is attractive to any one—who thinks about it.”
She had folded her hands on the pages and was leaning back in her chair. Robert examined her and came to the conclusion that she was not quite so disagreeable in countenance as the irregularity of her features at first led one to think. She had large eyes, and, to meet them, was to be strangely impressed, almost as with the attraction of beauty. Her evening dress was of black satin, a richer and more tasteful garment than he had expected she would wear, judging from her appearance earlier in the day. Her hair, too, was very carefully arranged. The foot, which just showed itself, was not small, but beautifully shaped. Ornaments she had none.
“That is censure clearly directed against myself,” Robert said, with good humour. “And yet I fancy I have thought a good deal of life.” Ada did not seem disposed to pursue the argument.
“What are you reading?” Asquith inquired. It was a volume of Comte. She showed the title without speaking.
“You are a Positivist?”