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.