The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of black velvet and the long cloak of sober red held out his hand. The folds of the velvet hanging down from the cap rather shadowed his face; but all the same Macleod instantly recognized him--fixing the recognition by means of the gold spectacles. "Mr. White?" said he. "I am more disguised than you are," the old gentleman said, with a smile. "It is a foolish notion of my daughter's; but she would have me come." His daughter! Macleod turned in a bewildered way to that gay crowd under the brilliant lights. "Was that Miss White?" said he. "The Duchess of Devonshire. Didn't you recognize her? I am afraid she will be very tired to-morrow; but she would come." He caught sight of her again--that woman, with the dark eyes full of fire, and the dashing air, and the audacious smile! He could have believed this old man to be mad. Or was he only the father of a witch, of an illusive _ignis fatuus_, of some mocking Ariel darting into a dozen shapes to make fools of the poor simple souls of earth? "No," he stammered, "I--I did not recognize her. I thought the lady who came with you had intensely dark eyes." "She is said to be very clever in making up," her father said, coolly and sententiously. "It is a part of her art that is not to be despised. It is quite as important as a gesture or a tone of voice in creating the illusion at which she aims. I do not know whether actresses, as a rule, are careless about it, or only clumsy; but they rarely succeed in making their appearance homogeneous. A trifle too much here, a trifle too little there, and the illusion is spoiled. Then you see a painted woman--not the character she is presenting. Did you observe my daughter's eyebrows?" "No, sir, I did not," said Macleod, humbly. "Here she comes. Look at them." But how could he look at her eyebrows, or at any trick of making up, when the whole face, with its new excitement of color, its parted lips and lambent eyes, was throwing its fascination upon him? She came forward laughing, and yet with a certain shyness. He would fain have turned away. The Highlanders are superstitious. Did he fear being bewitched? Or what was it that threw a certain coldness over his manner? The fact of her having danced with young Ogilvie? Or the ugly reference made by her father to her eyebrows? He had greatly admired this painted stranger when he thought she was a stranger; he seemed less to admire the artistic make-up of Miss Gertrude White. The merry Duchess, playing her part admirably, charmed all eyes but his; and yet she was so kind as to devote herself to her father and him, refusing invitations to dance, and chatting to them--with those brilliant lips smiling--about the various features of the gay scene before them. Macleod avoided looking at her face. "What a bonny boy your friend Mr. Ogilvie is!" said she, glancing across the room. He did not answer.