herself, and disturb her formation of this new character, which ought to
be growing up in her mind almost insensibly, until she herself will
scarcely be aware how real it is. When she steps on to the stage she
ought to be no more Gertrude White than you or I. The artist loses
himself. He transfers his soul to his creation. His heart beats in
another breast; he sees with other eyes. You will excuse me, Sir Keith,
but I keep insisting on this point to my daughter. If she ever becomes a
great artist, that will be the secret of her success. And she ought
never to cease from cultivating the habit. She ought to be ready at any
moment to project herself, as it were, into any character. She ought to
practise so as to make of her own emotions an instrument that she can
use at will. It is a great demand that art makes on the life of an
artist. In fact, he ceases to live for himself. He becomes merely a
medium. His most secret experiences are the property of the world at
large, once they have been transfused and moulded by his personal
skill."

And so he continued talking, apparently for the instruction of his
daughter, but also giving his guest clearly to understand that Miss
Gertrude White was not as other women but rather as one set apart for
the high and inexorable sacrifice demanded by art. At the end of his
lecture he abruptly asked Macleod if he had followed him. Yes, he had
followed him, but in rather a bewildered way. Or had he some confused
sense of self-reproach, in that he had distracted the contemplation of
this pale and beautiful artist, and sent her downstairs to look after
cutlets?

"It seems a little hard, sir," said Macleod to the old man, "that an
artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all; that he or she
should become merely a--a--a sort of ten-minutes' emotionalist."