Here there is a more cheerful scene.  There is a fire in the room; and there is supper laid on the table; while Mr. Septimus White, with his feet on the fender and his back turned to the lamp, is seated in an easy-chair, and holding up a book to the light so that the pages almost touch his gold-rimmed spectacles.  Miss White sits down on the sofa on the dark side of the room.  She has made no response to his greeting of “Well, Gerty?”

At length Mr. White becomes aware that his daughter is sitting there with her things on, and he turns from his book to her.

“Well, Gerty,” he repeats, “aren’t you going to have some supper?”

“No, thank you,” she says.

“Come, come,” he remonstrates, “that won’t do.  You must have some supper.  Shall Jane get you a cup of tea?”

“I don’t suppose there is any one up below; besides, I don’t want it,” says Miss White, rather wearily.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” she answers; and then she looks at the mantelpiece.  “No letter from Carry?”

“No.”

“Well, I hope you won’t make her an actress, papa,” observes Miss White, with no relevance, but with considerable sharpness in her tone.

In fact, this remark was so unexpected and uncalled-for that Mr. White suddenly put his book down on his knee, and turned his gold spectacles full on his daughter’s face.

“I will beg you to remember, Gerty,” he remarked, with some dignity, “that I did not make you an actress, if that is what you imply.  If it had not been entirely your wish, I should never have encouraged you; and I think it shows great ingratitude, not only to me but to the public also, that when you have succeeded in obtaining a position such as any woman in the country might envy, you treat your good fortune with indifference, and show nothing but discontent.  I cannot tell what has come over you of late.  You ought certainly to be the last to say anything against a profession that has gained for you such a large share of public favor—­”

“Public favor!” she said, with a bitter laugh.  “Who is the favorite of the public in this very town?  Why, the girl who plays in that farce—­who smokes a cigarette, and walks round the stage like a man, and dances a breakdown.  Why wasn’t I taught to dance breakdowns?”

Her father was deeply vexed; for this was not the first time she had dropped small rebellious hints.  And if this feeling grew, she might come to question his most cherished theories.

“I should think you were jealous of that girl,” said he, petulantly, “if it were not too ridiculous.  You ought to remember that she is an established favorite here.  She has amused these people year after year; they look on her as an old friend; they are grateful to her.  The means she uses to make people laugh may not meet with your approval; but she knows her own business, doubtless; and she succeeds in her own way.”