‘That is not surprising, as I have not been there since the day I saw you,’ she answered, indifferently. ‘Are you going to sing that same song at the concert?’ she added.
‘No, not that one. I take part in a duet with Miss Wynter.’
‘I see. Not so trying, quite, as having to stand up alone. I saw you were a little nervous that afternoon; but one soon gets over that when one has once started.’
‘Oh, thank you, there’s no call to pity me,’ said Ada, with a lofty smile. ‘I’m accustomed to singing before gentlemen.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that exactly,’ said Eleanor, astounded to find the construction put upon her words. ‘What a queer little self-sufficient, ill-bred thing it is!’ she reflected to herself. ‘How sad that Mr. Camm should be so blind!’ For she had heard a great deal about Roger Camm at the Vicarage, and from the doctor, whom she had seen once or twice in the last few days.
‘It did not matter in the least,’ went on Ada, anxious to vindicate herself from the charge of nervousness. ‘When one has to sing in public, it would never do to get nervous before one’s friends.’
‘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.