“And so, yesterday afternoon,” the letter continued, “papa and I went to Mr. Lemuel’s house, which is only a short way from here; and we entered, and found ourselves in a large circular and domed hall, pretty nearly dark, and with a number of closed doors.  It was all hushed, and mysterious, and dim; but there was a little more light when the man opened one of these doors and showed us into a chamber—­or, rather, one of a series of chambers—­that seemed to me at first like a big child’s toy-house, all painted and gilded with red and gold.  It was bewilderingly full of objects that had no ostensible purpose.  You could not tell whether any one of these rooms was dining-room, or drawing-room, or anything else; it was all a museum of wonderful cabinets filled with different sorts of ware, and trays of uncut precious stones, and Eastern jewelry, and what not; and then you discovered that in the panels of the cabinets were painted series of allegorical heads on a gold background; and then perhaps you stumbled on a painted glass window where no window should be.  It was a splendid blaze of color, no doubt.  One began to dream of Byzantine emperors, and Moorish conquerors, and Constantinople gilt domes.  But then—­mark the dramatic effect!—­away in the blaze of the farther chamber appears a solemn, slim, bowed figure, dressed all in black—­the black velvet coat seemed even blacker than black—­and the mournful-eyed man approached, and he gazed upon us a grave welcome from the pleading, affected, tired eyes.  He had a slight cough, too, which I rather fancied was assumed for the occasion.  Then we all sat down, and he talked to us in a low, sad, monotonous voice; and there was a smell of frankincense about—­no doubt a band of worshippers had lately been visiting at the shrine; and, at papa’s request, he showed me some of his trays of jewels with a wearied air.  And some drawings of Botticelli that papa had been speaking about; would he look at them now?  Oh, dear Keith, the wickedness of the human imagination! as he went about in this limp and languid fashion, in the hushed room, with the old-fashioned scent in the air, I wished I was a street boy.  I wished I could get close behind him, and give a sudden yell!  Would he fly into bits?  Would he be so startled into naturalness as to swear?  And all the time that papa and he talked, I dared scarcely lift my eyes; for I could not but think of the effect of that wild ‘Hi!’ And what if I had burst into a fit of laughter without any apparent cause?”

Apparently Miss White had not been much impressed by her visit to Mr. Lemuel’s palace of art, and she made thereafter but slight mention of it, though she had been prevailed upon to let the artist borrow the expression of her face for his forthcoming picture.  She had other things to think about now, when she wrote to Castle Dare.

For one day Lady Macleod went into her son’s room and said to him, “Here is a letter, Keith, which I have written to Miss White.  I wish you to read it.”