"I believe he is well," said Electra absently. She was thinking of the alien presence at the other house. "He looks it--strong, tanned. Osmond is very impressive somehow. It's fortunate he wasn't a little man." Peter made one of the quick gestures he had learned since he had been away from her. They told the tale of give and take with a more mobile people. He could not ask her to ignore Osmond's deformity, yet he could not bear to hear her speak of it. Osmond was, he thought, a colossal figure, to be accepted, whatever his state, like the roughened rock that builds the wall. He rose, terminating, without his conscious will, an interview that was to have lasted, if she had gone to the other house with him and he had returned again with her, the day long. "I must see Osmond," he hesitated. Electra, too, had risen. "Yes," she said conformably, though the table, she knew, would be laid for them both in what had promised to be their lovers' seclusion. "I will come back. This afternoon, Electra?" That morning, the afternoon had been his and hers only. She had expected to listen to the recital of his triumphs in Paris, and to scan eagerly the map of his prospects which was to show her way also. And she too opened her lips and spoke without preconsidered intent. "This afternoon I shall be busy. I have to go in town." "You won't--" he hesitated again. "Electra, you won't call at the house on the way, and see her, at least?" "Your Rose?" She smiled at him brilliantly. "Not to-day, Peter." Then, bruised, bewildered, he went back over the path he had come, leaving his imperial lady to go in and order the luncheon table prepared for one. "Madam Fulton will not be home," she said to the maid, with a proud unconsciousness; and for the moment it sounded as if Madam Fulton had been the expected guest. IV