If she had had her will just then, she would instantly have recalled Macleod, and placed his courage and careless confidence between her and this cruel criticism.  She had never, in truth, thought of these things.  His pertinacity would not allow her.  He had kept insisting that the only point for her to consider was whether she had sufficient love for him to enable her to answer his great love for her with the one word “Yes.”  Thereafter, according to his showing, everything else was a mere trifle.  Obstacles, troubles, delays?—­he would hear of nothing of the sort.  And although, while he was present, she had been inspired by something of this confident feeling, now when she was attacked in his absence she felt herself defenceless.

“You may be as disagreeable as you like, Carry,” said she, almost wearily.  “I cannot help it.  I never could understand your dislike to Sir Keith Macleod.”

“Cannot you understand,” said the younger sister, with some show of indignation, “that if you are to marry at all, I should like to see you marry an Englishman, instead of a great Highland savage who thinks about nothing but beasts’ skins.  And why should you marry at all, Gertrude White?  I suppose he will make you leave the theatre; and instead of being a famous woman whom everybody admires and talks about, you will be plain Mrs. Nobody, hidden away in some place, and no one will ever hear of you again!  Do you know what you are doing?  Did you ever hear of any woman making such a fool of herself before?”

So far from being annoyed by this strong language, the elder sister seemed quite pleased.

“Do you know, Carry, I like to hear you talk like that,” she said, with a smile.  “You almost persuade me that I am not asking him for too great a sacrifice, after all—­”

“A sacrifice!  On his part!” exclaimed the younger sister; and then she added, with decision:  “but it shan’t be, Gertrude White!  I will go to papa.”

“Pardon me,” said the elder sister, who was nearer the door, “you need not trouble yourself:  I am going now.”

She went into the small room which was called her father’s study, but which was in reality a sort of museum.  She closed the door behind her.

“I have just had the pleasure of an interview with Carry, papa,” she said, with a certain bitterness of tone, “and she has tried hard to make me as miserable as I can be.  If I am to have another dose of it from you, papa, I may as well have it at once.  I have promised to marry Sir Keith Macleod.”

She sank down in an easy-chair.  There was a look on her face which plainly said, “Now do your worst; I cannot be more wretched than I am.”

“You have promised to marry Sir Keith Macleod?” he repeated, slowly, and fixing his eyes on her face.

He did not break into any rage, and accuse Macleod of treachery or her of filial disobedience.  He knew that she was familiar with that kind of thing.  What he had to deal with was the immediate future, not the past.