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.