A reporter had asked him the same question a few hours before, and the answer would be in the evening paper. He smiled at her, and spread out his hands in a disclaiming gesture. "You know what I foresee. You know what you foresee yourself. It is the same thing." "Yes," said Electra, "it is the same thing." But there were times when MacLeod wanted to escape from posturing, even though it brought him adulation. "I haven't apologized for breaking in on you like this," he said, with his engaging smile. "They told me at Grant's that I should probably find him over here, in the garden. The next house they said. This is the next house?" "Oh, yes," returned Electra. "He has not been here, but I will send for him. He shall come to luncheon. You must stay." "Shall I?" He was all good-nature, all readiness and adaptability. Electra excused herself to give the maid an order, and while she stood in the hall, talking to the woman, temptation came upon her. Yet it was not temptation, she told herself. This was the obvious thing to do. "Tell Mr. Grant I wish him particularly to come to luncheon," she said, "and to bring"--she hesitated at the name and shirked it, "and to bring the young lady,--the lady who is staying there." Then she returned to MacLeod. But she was not altogether at ease. Electra was accustomed to examine her motives, and she had the disquieting certainty that, this time, though they would do for the literal eye, they had not been entirely pure. Still, was it her fault if Rose, confronted by the newcomer, proved unprepared and showed what was fragile in her testimony? But she was not to be thrown off the scent of public affairs. "Talk about Russia," she entreated. She had never felt so spontaneously at ease with any one. MacLeod was used to making that impression, and he smiled on her the more kindly, seeing how the old charm worked. "I'd rather talk about America," he said, "about this place of yours. It's a bully place." Electra was devoted to academic language, and to her certainty that all great souls expressed themselves in it. She winced a little but recovered herself when he asked with a new conversational seriousness, "and how is my friend Grant?" "Well." She found some difficulty in answering more fully, because it somehow became apparent to her that he had not really placed her. Peter was his only clue in the town. It hardly looked as if he expected to find a daughter here. "Is he painting?" MacLeod went on.