"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.

"You know it is simply because Sir Keith Macleod is coming to lunch. I
forgot all about it. Oh, and that's why you had the clean curtains put