“Oh, a great many rude things.  You should not have contradicted Mrs. Kavanagh about the color of an amethyst.”

“But why?  You know she was wrong; and she said herself a minute afterward that she was thinking of a sapphire.”

“But you ought not to contradict a person older than yourself,” said Sheila sententiously.

“Goodness gracious me!  Because one person is born in one year, and one in another, is that any reason why you should say that an amethyst is blue?  Mr. Mackenzie, come and talk to this girl.  She is trying to pervert my principles.  She says that in talking to a woman you have to abandon all hope of being accurate, and that respect for the truth is not to be thought of.  Because a woman has a pretty face she is to be allowed to say that black is white, and white pea-green.  And if you say anything to the contrary, you are a brute, and had better go and bellow by yourself in a wilderness.”

“Sheila is quite right,” said old Mackenzie at a venture.

“Oh, do you think so?” Ingram asked coolly.  “Then I can understand how her moral sentiment has been destroyed, and it is easy to see where she has got a set of opinions that strike at the very roots of a respectable and decent society.”

“Do you know,” said Sheila seriously, “that it is very rude of you to say so, even in jest?  If you treat Mrs. Lorraine in this way—­”

She suddenly stopped.  Her father had not heard, being busy among his pipes.  So the subject was discreetly dropped, Ingram reluctantly promising to pay some attention to Sheila’s precepts of politeness.

Altogether, it was a pleasant evening they had, but when Ingram had left, Mr. Mackenzie said to his daughter, “Now, look at this, Sheila.  When Mr. Ingram goes away from London, you hef no friend at all then in the place, and you are quite alone.  Why will you not come to the Lewis, Sheila?  It is no one there will know anything of what has happened here; and Mairi she is a good girl, and she will hold her tongue.”

“They will ask me why I come back without my husband,” Sheila said, looking down.

“Oh, you will leave that all to me,” said her father, who knew he had surely sufficient skill to thwart the curiosity of a few simple creatures in Borva.  “There is many a girl hass to go home for a time while her husband he is away on his business; and there will no one hef the right to ask you any more than I will tell them; and I will tell them what they should know—­oh yes, I will tell them ferry well—­and you will hef no trouble about it.  And, Sheila, you are a good lass, and you know that I hef many things to attend to that is not easy to write about—­”

“I do know that, papa,” the girl said, “and many a time have I wished you would go back to the Lewis.”

“And leave you here by yourself?  Why, you are talking foolishly, Sheila.  But now, Sheila, you will see how you could go back with me; and it would be a ferry different thing for you running about in the fresh air than shut up in a room in the middle of a town.  And you are not looking ferry well, my lass, and Scarlett she will hef to take the charge of you.”