“I was not comparing myself with an artist like Mr. Lemuel, pappy.  No, no.  Of course I have to keep my eyes open, and pick up things that may be useful.  His work is the work of intense spiritual contemplation—­it is inspiration—­”

“No doubt,” the father said; “the inspiration of Botticelli.”

“Papa!”

Mr. White chuckled to himself.  He was not given to joking:  an epigram was not in consonance with his high sententiousness.  But instantly he resumed his solemn deportment.

“A picture is as much a part of the world as a human face:  why should I not take my inspiration from a picture as well as from a human face?”

“You mean to say he is only a copyist—­a plagiarist!” she said, with some indignation.

“Not at all,” said he.  “All artists have their methods founded more or less on the methods of those who have gone before them.  You don’t expect an artist to discover for himself an entirely new principle of art, any more than you expect him to paint in pigments of his own invention.  Mr. Lemuel has been a diligent student of Botticelli—­that is all.”

This strange talk amidst the awful loneliness and grandeur of Glen-Sloich!  They were idly walking along the rough road:  far above them rose the giant slopes of the mountains retreating into heavy masses of cloud that were moved by the currents of the morning wind.  It was a gray day; and the fresh-water lake here was of a leaden hue, and the browns and greens of the mountain-side were dark and intense.  There was no sign of human life or habitation; there was no bird singing; the deer was far away in the unknown valleys above them, hidden by the mystic cloud phantoms.  There was an odor of sweet-gale in the air.  The only sound was the murmuring of the streams that were pouring down through these vast solitudes to the sea.

And now they reached a spot from whence, on turning, they caught sight of the broad plain of the Atlantic—­all wind-swept and white.  And the sky was dark and low down, though at one place the clouds had parted, and there was a glimmer of blue as narrow and keen as the edge of a knife.  But there were showers about; for Iona was invisible, and Staffa was faintly gray through the passing rain; and Ulva was almost black as the storm approached in its gloom.  Botticelli!  Those men now in that small lugsailed boat—­far away off the point of Gometra—­a tiny dark thing, apparently lost every second or so amidst the white Atlantic surge, and wrestling hard with the driving wind and sea to reach the thundering and foam-filled caverns of Staffa—­they were not thinking much of Botticelli.  Keith Macleod was in that boat.  The evening before Miss White had expressed some light wish about some trifle or other, but had laughingly said that she must wait till she got back to the region of shops.  Unknown to her, Macleod had set off to intercept the steamer:  and he would go on board and get hold of the steward; and would the steward be so kind as to hunt about in Oban to see if that trifle could not be found?  Macleod would not intrust so important a message to any one else:  he would himself go out to meet the Pioneer.