“DUNCAN MACDONALD.”

“This summer or winter,” said Sheila to herself, with a happy light on her face:  “why not now?” Why should she not go down stairs to the coffee-room of the hotel and place this invitation in the hand of her husband and his friend?  Would not its garrulous simplicity recall to both of them the island they used to find so pleasant?  Would not they suddenly resolve to leave behind them London and its ways and people, even this monotonous sea out there, and speed away northwardly till they came in sight of the great and rolling Minch, with its majestic breadth of sky and its pale blue islands lying far away at the horizon?  Then the happy landing at Stornoway—­her father and Duncan and Mairi all on the quay—­the rapid drive over to Loch Roag, and the first glimpse of the rocky bays and clear water and white sand about Borva and Borvabost!  And Sheila would once more—­having cast aside this cumbrous attire that she had to change so often, and having got out that neat and simple costume that was so good for walking or driving or sailing—­be proud to wait upon her guests, and help Mairi in her household ways, and have a pretty table ready for the gentlemen when they returned from the shooting.

Her husband came up the hotel stairs and entered the room.  She rose to meet him, with the open letter in her hand.

“Sheila,” he said (and the light slowly died away from her face), “I have something to ask of you.”

She knew by the sound of his voice that she had nothing to hope:  it was not the first time she had been disappointed, and yet this time it seemed especially bitter somehow.  The awakening from these illusions was sudden.

She did not answer, so he said in the same measured voice, “I have to ask that you will have henceforth no communication with Mr. Ingram:  I do not wish him to come to the house.”

She stood for a moment, apparently not understanding the meaning of what he said.  Then, when the full force of this decision and request came upon her, a quick color sprang to her face, the cause of which, if it had been revealed to him in words, would have considerably astonished her husband.  But that moment of doubt, of surprise and of inward indignation was soon over.  She cast down her eyes and said meekly, “Very well, dear.”

It was now his turn to be astonished, and mortified as well.  He could not have believed it possible that she should so calmly acquiesce in the dismissal of one of her dearest friends.  He had expected a more or less angry protest, if not a distinct refusal, which would have given him an opportunity for displaying the injuries he conceived himself to have suffered at their hands.  Why had she not come to himself?  This man Ingram was presuming on his ancient friendship, and on the part he had taken in forwarding the marriage up in Borva.  He had always, moreover, been somewhat too much of the schoolmaster, with his severe judgments,