“You have decided to go, then?”

Ingram, not looking at her, but looking at Sheila, said, “Yes;” and Sheila, despite all her efforts, could not help glancing up with a brief smile and blush of pleasure that were quite visible to everybody.

Mrs. Lorraine struck in with a sort of nervous haste:  “Oh, that will be very pleasant for mamma, for she gets rather tired of me at times when we are traveling.  Two women who always read the same sort of books, and have the same opinions about the people they meet, and have precisely the same tastes in everything, are not very amusing companions for each other.  You want a little discussion thrown in.”

“And if we meet Mr. Ingram we are sure to have that,” Mrs. Kavanagh said benignly.

“And you want somebody to give you new opinions and put things differently, you know.  I am sure mamma will be most kind to you if you can make it convenient to spend a few days with us, Mr. Ingram.”

“And I have been trying to persuade Mr. Mackenzie and this young lady to come also,” said Ingram.

“Oh, that would be delightful!” Mrs. Lorraine cried, suddenly taking Sheila’s hand.  “You will come, won’t you?  We should have such a pleasant party.  I am sure your papa would be most interested; and we are not tied to any route:  we should go wherever you pleased.”

She would have gone on beseeching and advising, but she saw something in Sheila’s face which told her that all her efforts would be unavailing.

“It is very kind of you,” Sheila said, “but I do not think I can go to the Tyrol.”

“Then you shall go back to the Lewis, Sheila,” her father said.

“I cannot go back to the Lewis, papa,” she said simply; and at this point Ingram, perceiving how painful the discussion was for the girl, suddenly called attention to the hour, and asked Mrs. Kavanagh if all her portmanteaus were strapped up.

They drove in a body down to the station, and Mr. Ingram was most assiduous in supplying the two travelers with an abundance of everything they could not possibly want.  He got them a reading-lamp, though both of them declared they never read in a train.  He got them some eau-de-cologne, though they had plenty in their traveling-case.  He purchased for them an amount of miscellaneous literature that would have been of benefit to a hospital, provided the patients were strong enough to bear it.  And then he bade them good-bye at least half a dozen times as the train was slowly moving out of the station, and made the most solemn vows about meeting them at Bregenz.

“Now, Sheila,” he said, “shall we go to the theatre?”

“I do not care to go unless you wish,” was the answer.

“She does not care to go anywhere now,” her father said; and then the girl, seeing that he was rather distressed about her apparent want of interest, pulled herself together and said cheerfully, “Is it not too late to go to a theatre?  And I am sure we could be very comfortable at home.  Mairi, she will think it unkind if we go to the theatre by ourselves.”