‘Since you are so fond of stories, of course you are acquainted with the classics amongst our novelists,—Thackeray, Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, and all the other great names?’
‘Classics!’ cried Ada, not answering the question. ‘Oh, I know what classics are. Roger—Mr. Camm, that is, you know—is always telling me I should read this and that and the other, because they are classics. I know I never tried a classic yet that wasn’t awfully dry—yes, awfully.’
‘Perhaps you haven’t ever really tried.’
‘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.’