“Oh, Miss Rawlinson, I won’t have you say such things of Gerty White!” Mrs. Ross protested.  “You are a wicked old woman—­isn’t she Hugh?”

“I am saying it to her credit,” continued the old lady, with much composure.  “What I say is, that most pretty women who are much run after are flattered into frankness.  When they are introduced to you, they don’t take the trouble to conceal that they are quite indifferent to you.  A plain woman will be decently civil, and will smile, and pretend she is pleased.  A beauty—­a recognized beauty—­doesn’t take the trouble to be hypocritical.  Now Miss White does.”

“It is an odd sort of compliment,” said Colonel Ross, laughing.  “What do you think of it Macleod?”

“These are too great refinements for my comprehension,” said he, modestly.  “I think if a pretty woman is uncivil to you, it is easy for you to turn on your heel and go away.”

“I did not say uncivil—­don’t you go misrepresenting a poor old woman, Sir Keith.  I said she is most likely to be flattered into being honest—­into showing a stranger that she is quite indifferent, whereas a plain woman will try to make herself a little agreeable.  Now a poor lone creature like myself likes to fancy that people are glad to see her, and Miss White pretends as much.  It is very kind.  By and by she will get spoiled like the rest, and then she will become honest.  She will shake hands with me, and then turn off, as much as to say, ’Go away, you ugly old woman, for I can’t be bothered with you, and I don’t expect any money from you, and why should I pretend to like you?’”

All this was said in a half-jesting way; and it certainly did not at all represent—­so far as Macleod had ever made out—­the real opinions of her neighbors in the world held by this really kind and gentle old lady.  But Macleod had noticed before that Miss Rawlinson never spoke with any great warmth about Miss Gertrude White’s beauty, or her acting, or anything at all connected with her.  At this very moment, when she was apparently praising the young lady, there was a bitter flavor about what she said.  There may be jealousy between sixty-five and nineteen; and if this reflection occurred to Macleod, he no doubt assumed that Miss Rawlinson, if jealous at all, was jealous of Miss Gertrude White’s influence over—­Mrs. Ross.

“As for Miss White’s father,” continued the old lady, with a little laugh, “perhaps he believes in those sublime theories of art he is always preaching about.  Perhaps he does.  They are very fine.  One result of them is that his daughter remains on the stage—­and earns a handsome income—­and he enjoys himself in picking up bits of curiosities.”

“Now that is really unfair,” said Mrs. Ross, seriously.  “Mr. White is not a rich man, but he has some small means that render him quite independent of any income of his daughter’s.  Why, how did they live before they ever thought of letting her try her fortune on the stage?  And the money he spent, when it was at last decided she should be carefully taught—­”