“And so you have given me your congratulations, papa,” she said, rising.  “I have been so thoroughly trained to be an actress that, when I marry, I shall only go from one stage to another.”

“That was only a figure of speech,” said he.

“At all events,” she said, “I shall not be vexed by petty jealousies of other actresses, and I shall cease to be worried and humiliated by what they say about me in the provincial newspapers.”

“As for the newspapers,” he retorted, “you have little to complain of.  They have treated you very well.  And even if they annoyed you by a phrase here or there, surely the remedy is simple.  You need not read them.  You don’t require any recommendation to the public now.  As for your jealousy of other actresses—­that was always an unreasonable vexation on your part—­”

“Yes, and that only made it the more humiliating to myself,” said she, quickly.

“But think of this,” said he.  “You are married.  You have been long away from the scene of your former triumphs.  Some day you go to the theatre; and you find as the favorite of the public a woman who, you can see, cannot come near to what you used to do.  And I suppose you won’t be jealous of her, and anxious to defeat her on the old ground.”

“I can do with that as you suggested about the newspapers:  I need not go to the theatre.”

“Very well, Gerty.  I hope all will be for the best.  But do not be in a hurry; take time and consider.”

She saw clearly enough that this calm acquiescence was all the congratulation or advice she was likely to get; and she went to the door.

“Papa,” said she, diffidently, “Sir Keith Macleod is coming up to-morrow morning—­to go to church with us.”

“Yes?” said he, indifferently.

“He may speak to you before we go.”

“Very well.  Of course I have nothing to say in the matter.  You are mistress of your own actions.”

She went to her own room, and locked herself in, feeling very lonely, and disheartened, and miserable.  There was more to alarm her in her father’s faintly expressed doubts than in all Carry’s vehement opposition and taunts.  Why had Macleod left her alone?—­if only she could see him laugh, her courage would be reassured.

Then she bethought her that this was not a fit mood for one who had promised to be the wife of a Macleod.  She went to the mirror and regarded herself; and almost unconsciously an expression of pride and resolve appeared about the lines of her mouth.  And she would show to herself that she had still a woman’s feelings by going out and doing some actual work of charity; she would prove to herself that the constant simulation of noble emotions had not deadened them in her own nature.  She put on her hat and shawl, and went downstairs, and went out into the free air and the sunlight—­without a word to either Carry or her father.  She was trying to imagine herself