“Clara!” he gasped, “I could not have believed it!”

“What is it, papa?”

“You are smoking!”

“Trying to, papa.  I find it a little difficult, for I have not been used to it.”

“But why, in the name of goodness—­”

“Mrs. Westmacott recommends it.”

“Oh, a lady of mature years may do many things which a young girl must avoid.”

“Oh, no,” cried Ida, “Mrs. Westmacott says that there should be one law for all.  Have a cigarette, pa?”

“No, thank you.  I never smoke in the morning.”

“No?  Perhaps you don’t care for the brand.  What are these, Clara?”

“Egyptians.”

“Ah, we must have some Richmond Gems or Turkish.  I wish, pa, when you go into town, you would get me some Turkish.”

“I will do nothing of the kind.  I do not at all think that it is a fitting habit for young ladies.  I do not agree with Mrs. Westmacott upon the point.”

“Really, pa!  It was you who advised us to imitate her.”

“But with discrimination.  What is it that you are drinking, Clara?”

“Rum, papa.”

“Rum?  In the morning?” He sat down and rubbed his eyes as one who tries to shake off some evil dream.  “Did you say rum?”

“Yes, pa.  They all drink it in the profession which I am going to take up.”

“Profession, Clara?”

“Mrs. Westmacott says that every woman should follow a calling, and that we ought to choose those which women have always avoided.”

“Quite so.”

“Well, I am going to act upon her advice.  I am going to be a pilot.”

“My dear Clara!  A pilot!  This is too much.”

“This is a beautiful book, papa. `The Lights, Beacons, Buoys, Channels, and Landmarks of Great Britain.’  Here is another, `The Master Mariner’s Handbook.’  You can’t imagine how interesting it is.”

“You are joking, Clara.  You must be joking!”

“Not at all, pa.  You can’t think what a lot I have learned already.  I’m to carry a green light to starboard and a red to port, with a white light at the mast-head, and a flare-up every fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, won’t it look pretty at night!” cried her sister.

“And I know the fog-signals.  One blast means that a ship steers to starboard, two to port, three astern, four that it is unmanageable.  But this man asks such dreadful questions at the end of each chapter.  Listen to this:  `You see a red light.  The ship is on the port tack and the wind at north; what course is that ship steering to a point?’”

The Doctor rose with a gesture of despair.  “I can’t imagine what has come over you both,” said he.

“My dear papa, we are trying hard to live up to Mrs. Westmacott’s standard.”

“Well, I must say that I do not admire the result.  Your chemistry, Ida, may perhaps do no harm; but your scheme, Clara, is out of the question.  How a girl of your sense could ever entertain such a notion is more than I can imagine.  But I must absolutely forbid you to go further with it.”