“I told him nothing of the kind.  I had no opportunity of getting into family affairs.  And if I had, what has Tom got to do with Sir Keith Macleod?  I had forgotten his very existence—­no wonder, after eight years of absolute silence.”

But Carry, having fired this shot, was off after other ammunition.

“You told him you had sweethearts before?”

“No, I did not,” said Miss Gertrude White, warmly, “because it isn’t true.”

“What?—­Mr. Howson?”

“The orchestra leader in a provincial theatre!”

“Oh yes! but you did not speak so contemptuously of him then.  Why, you made him believe he was another Mendelssohn!”

“You are talking nonsense.”

“And Mr. Brook—­you no doubt told him that Mr. Brook called on papa, and asked him to go down to Doctors’ Commons and see for himself what money he would have—­”

“And what then?  How can I prevent any idiotic boy who chooses to turn me into a heroine from going and making a fool of himself?”

“Oh, Gertrude White!” said Carry, solemnly.  “Will you sit there and tell me you gave him no encouragement?”

“This is mere folly!” the elder sister said, petulantly; as she rose and proceeded to put straight a few of the things about the room.  “I had hoped better things of you, Carry.  I tell you of an important step I have taken in my life, and you bring out a lot of tattle and nonsense.  However, I can act for myself.  It is true, I had imagined something different.  When I marry, of course, we shall be separated.  I had looked forward to the pleasure of showing you my new home.”

“Where is it to be?”

“Wherever my husband wishes it to be,” she answered, proudly; but there was a conscious flush of color in her face as she uttered—­for the first time—­that word.

“In the Highlands, I suppose, for he is not rich enough to have two houses,” said Carry; which showed that she had been pondering over this matter before.  “And he has already got his mother and his old-maid sister, or whatever she is, in the house.  You will make a pretty family!”

This was a cruel thrust.  When Macleod had spoken of the far home overlooking the Northern seas, what could be more beautiful than his picture of the noble and silver-haired dame, and of the gentle and loving cousin who was the friend and counsellor of the poor people around?  And when he had suggested that some day or other Mr. White might bring his daughter to these remote regions to see all the wonders and the splendors of them, he told her how the beautiful mother would take her to this place and to that place, and how that Janet Macleod would pet and befriend her, and perhaps teach her a few words of the Gaelic, that she might have a kindly phrase for the passer-by.  But this picture of Carry’s!—­a houseful of wrangling women!