She folded up the letter and held it in her hand, and went into her father’s room.  There was a certain petulant and irritated look on her face.

“He says he is coming up to London, papa,” said she, abruptly.

“I suppose you mean Sir Keith Macleod,” said he.

“Well, of course.  And can you imagine anything more provoking—­just at present, when we are rehearsing this new play, and when all the time I can afford Mr. Lemuel wants for the portrait?  I declare the only time I feel quiet, secure, safe from the interference of anybody, and more especially the worry of the postman, is when I am having that portrait painted; the intense stillness of the studio is delightful, and you have beautiful things all around you.  As soon as I open the door, I come out into the world again, with constant vexations and apprehensions all around.  Why, I don’t know but that at any minute Sir Keith Macleod may not come walking up to the gate!”

“And why should that possibility keep you in terror?” said her father, calmly.

“Well, not in terror,” said she, looking down, “but—­but anxiety, at least; and a very great deal of anxiety.  Because I know he will want explanations, and promises, and I don’t know what—­just at the time I am most worried and unsettled about everything I mean to do.”

Her father regarded her for a second or two.

“Well?” said he.

“Isn’t that enough?” she said, with some indignation.

“Oh,” said he, coldly, “you have merely come to me to pour out your tale of wrongs.  You don’t want me to interfere, I suppose.  Am I to condole with you?”

“I don’t know why you should speak to me like that, at all events,” said she.

“Well, I will tell you,” he responded, in the same cool, matter of fact way.  “When you told me you meant to give up the theatre and marry Sir Keith Macleod, my answer was that you were likely to make a mistake.  I thought you were a fool to throw away your position as an actress; but I did not urge the point.  I merely left the matter in your own hands.  Well, you went your own way.  For a time your head was filled with romance—­Highland chieftains, and gillies, and red-deer, and baronial halls, and all that stuff; and no doubt you persuaded that young man that you believed in the whole thing fervently, and there was no end to the names you called theatres and everybody connected with them.  Not only that, but you must needs drag me up to the Highlands to pay a visit to a number of strangers with whom both you and I lived on terms of apparent hospitality and goodwill, but in reality on terms of very great restraint.  Very well.  You begin to discover that your romance was a little bit removed from the actual state of affairs—­at least, you say so—­”

“I say so!” she exclaimed.