“And so you are taking your notion, as to what sort of life you would lead, from a Highland savage—­a boor whose only occupations are eating and drinking and killing wild animals.  A fine guide, truly!  He has had so much experience in aesthetic matters!  Or is it metapheesics is his hobby?  And what, pray, is his notion as to what life should be? that the noblest object of a man’s ambition should be to kill a stag?  It was a mistake for Dante to let his work eat into his heart; he should have devoted himself to shooting rabbits.  And Raphael—­don’t you think he would have improved his digestion by giving up pandering to the public taste for pretty things, and taking to hunting wild-boars? that is the theory, isn’t it?  Is that the metapheesics you have learned?”

“You may talk about it,” she said, rather humbly—­for she knew very well she could not stand against her father in argument, especially on a subject that he rather prided himself on having mastered—­“but you are not a woman, and you don’t know what a woman feels about such things.”

“And since when have you made the discovery?  What has happened to convince you so suddenly that your professional life is a degradation?”

“Oh,” she said, carelessly, “I was scarcely thinking of myself.  Of course I know what lies before me.  It was about Carry I spoke to you.”

“Carry shall decide for herself, as you did; and when she has done so, I hope she won’t come and blame me the first time she gets some ridiculous idea into her head.”

“Now, papa, that isn’t fair,” the eldest sister said, in a gentler voice.  “You know I never blamed you.  I only showed you that even a popular actress sometimes remembers that she is a woman.  And if she is a woman, you must let her have a grumble occasionally.”

This conciliatory tone smoothed the matter down at once; and Mr. White turned to his book with another recommendation to his daughter to take some supper and get to bed.

“I will go now,” she said, rather wearily, as she rose.  “Good-night, papa—­What is that?”

She was looking at a parcel that lay on a chair.

“It came for you, to-night.  There was seven and sixpence to pay for extra carriage—­it seems to have been forwarded from place to place.”

“As if I had not enough luggage to carry about with me!” she said.

But she proceeded to open the parcel all the same, which seemed to be very carefully swathed in repeated covers of canvas.  And presently she uttered a slight exclamation.  She took up one dark object after another, passing her hand over them, and back again, and finally pressing them to her cheek.

“Just look at these, papa—­did you ever in all your life see anything so beautiful?”

She came to a letter, too; which she hastily tore open and read.  It was a brief note, in terms of great respect, written by Sir Keith Macleod, and begging Miss White’s acceptance of a small parcel of otter-skins, which he hoped might be made into some article of attire.  Moreover, he had asked his cousin’s advice on the matter; and she thought there were enough; but if Miss White, on further inquiry, found she would rather have one or two more, he had no doubt that within the next month or so he could obtain these also.  It was a very respectful note.