‘This is Miss Ada Dixon,’ observed Magdalen; ‘a friend of mine, who comes to sing with me sometimes. Ada, Miss Askam.’
Eleanor bowed to the young girl, who returned the movement with a somewhat affected contortion of the body, and said, ‘How do you do, Miss Askam?’ all in a certain manner which, while it could scarcely be called vulgar or awkward, was yet most distinctly not the manner of one accustomed to good society, or feeling at her ease in it. Eleanor looked at her with some curiosity. She saw an extremely pretty, slight girl, with a small face, of classical purity and correctness of outline, light hazel eyes, a delicate complexion, a pretty mignonne figure, dressed in the most outré of would-be fashionable styles,—such second-rate, nay, third or fourth rate fashion as Bradstane milliners and dressmakers could supply, aggravated by an entire want in the wearer of any sense of harmony or fitness. She had piled upon her pretty little person many strange mixtures of material and structures of garments. A tightly fitting winter jacket, for example, of thick cloth, trimmed with fur, was a not unsuitable garment for the season; but, instead of the serviceable silk neckerchief one would have expected to see worn with it, Miss Dixon had on a large and conspicuous arrangement of white lace, muslin, and blue ribbon, inclined to puff up under her chin in an unmanageable way, but kept within bounds by a massive silver locket and chain. This was but one example of the innumerable errors of taste and style which characterised the girl’s toilette; and yet, so pretty was she, so fresh and charming in her prettiness, that one forgot to criticise very severely such minor matters as clashing colours and incongruous materials.
‘And how are you, Ada?’ asked Miss Wynter.
‘Very well, thank you, Miss Wynter. There’s nothing ails me, that I know of.’
‘You’ll have a cup of tea, I daresay. Have you walked from Bradstane?’
‘Yes, Miss Wynter, I have.’
‘And how are you going to get home?’
‘I’m to leave here at half-past six, if you can do with me so long, and then Mr. Camm will meet me at the gate, he said.’
‘Meet you at the gate? Did you not ask him to come in?’
‘I did say that you’d told me to bring him in, Miss Wynter; but he never will. It’s no use. He has no more manners than a cat, and so I often tell him. I’m sure I’ve said many a time how bad it looks for him to come just so far for me, and not any farther.’