She certainly seemed very clear on that point.

“I don’t see that men are so ready to give up their professions, when they marry, in order to devote themselves to domestic life, even when they have plenty of money.  Why should all the sacrifice be on the side of the woman?  But I know if I have to choose between my art and a husband, I shall continue to do without a husband.”

Miss Carry had risen, and put one arm round her sister’s neck, while with the other she stroked the soft brown hair over the smooth forehead.

“And it shall not be taken away from its pretty theatre, it sha’n’t!” said she, pettingly; “and it shall not be asked to go away with any great ugly Bluebeard, and be shut up in a lonely house—­”

“Go away, Carry,” said she, releasing herself.  “I wonder why you began talking such nonsense.  What do you know about all those things?”

“Oh! very well,” said the child, turning away with a pout; and she pulled a rose and began to take its petals off, one by one, with her lips.  “Perhaps I don’t know.  Perhaps I haven’t studied your manoeuvres on the stage, Miss Gertrude White.  Perhaps I never saw the newspapers declaring that it was all so very natural and life-like.”  She flung two or three rose petals at her sister.  “I believe you’re the biggest flirt that ever lived, Gerty.  You could make any man you liked marry you in ten minutes.”

“I wish I could manage to have certain schoolgirls whipped and sent to bed.”

At this moment there appeared at the open French window an elderly woman of Flemish features and extraordinary breadth of bust.

“Shall I put dressing in the salad, miss?” she said, with scarcely any trace of foreign accent.

“Not yet, Marie,” said Miss White.  “I will make the dressing first.  Bring me a large plate, and the cruet-stand, and a spoon and fork, and some salt.”

Now when these things had been brought, and when Miss White had sat about preparing this salad dressing in a highly scientific manner, a strange thing occurred.  Her sister seemed to have been attacked by a sudden fit of madness.  She had caught up a light shawl, which she extended from hand to hand, as if she were dancing with some one, and then she proceeded to execute a slow waltz in this circumscribed space, humming the improvised music in a mystical and rhythmical manner.  And what were these dark utterances that the inspired one gave forth, as she glanced from time to time at her sister and the plate?

“Oh, a Highland lad my love was born—­and the Lowland laws he held in scorn—­”

“Carry, don’t make a fool of yourself!” said the other flushing angrily.

Carry flung her imaginary partner aside.

“There is no use making any pretence,” said she, sharply.  “You know quite well why you are making that salad dressing.”

“Did you never see me make salad dressing before?” said the other, quite as sharply.