She seemed to have reached something now that warmed her into life, and he took advantage of that kindling. "Rose is his daughter," he reminded her. "She is very beautiful, very sad. She is worthy of such a father." "Rose? Is that her actual name?" "Yes. They are Americans, though since her childhood she has lived in France." "What did she do before Tom--got acquainted with her? Live there in Paris with her father?" "She sang. She has a moving voice. She always hoped she was going to sing better, but there never was money enough to give her the right training. Then she began going about with her father. She spoke, too." "In public? For the Brotherhood?" "Yes. She has great magnetism. But she stopped doing that." "Why?" "I don't know. I have heard her father ask her to do it, but she refused. She is beautiful, Electra." Electra was looking at him thoughtfully. "Did she persuade you to join the Brotherhood?" she asked. "No," said Peter, unmoved, "the chief himself persuaded me. I went to a great meeting one Sunday night. I heard him. That was the end of me. I knew where I belonged." Electra, her mind hidden from him as completely as if a veil had fallen between them, was, he could see, considering him. As for her, he hardly dared dwell upon her as she ruthlessly seemed. She was again like the bright American air, too determinate, too sharp. She almost hurt the eyes. He wondered vaguely over several things he was unwilling to ask her, since he could not bear to bring their difference to a finished issue: why she cherished a boundless belief in the father and only reprobation for the daughter, when she had seen neither the one nor the other; why she had this vivid enthusiasm for the charity that embraces the world and none for a friendless child at her door. Their interview seemed to have dropped flat in inconceivable collapse; what was to have been the beginning of their dual life was only the encounter of a hand-to-hand discussion. He tried to summon back the vividness to his fagged emotions, and gave it up. Then he ventured to think of his imperial lady, and found a satirical note beating into his mind. He took refuge in the practical. "I have not seen Osmond yet." "Wasn't he there to meet you?" "No. Grannie said I should have to go down to the plantation, to find him. Does he keep up his old ways, Electra?" "Yes. Sleeping practically out of doors summer and winter, or in the shack, as he calls it,--that log hut he put up years ago. Haven't you known about him? Hasn't he written?" "Oh, he writes, but not about himself. Osmond wouldn't do that. Somehow grandmother never wrote any details about him either. I fancied he didn't want her to. So I never asked. She only said he was 'well.' You know Osmond always says that himself."