Her old habit of elusive courtesy came back to her. She laughed a little.
"We haven't really met now, have we?" she responded pleasantly.
"He said he was afraid of you." Peter put it bluntly, out of his curiosity and something else that was not altogether satisfaction. He was not jealous of Osmond. He could not be, more than of a splendid tree; but there was a something in the air he did not understand. He felt himself pushing angrily against it, as if it were a tangible obstruction. "He was afraid of you," he continued blunderingly, "because you are a Parisian."
Rose laughed again, with that beguiling gentleness.
"But he spoke first, I believe," she explained carelessly. "I was walking along and he asked me where I was going."
"What were you talking about?" Peter's voice amazed him, as it did her. It was rough, remonstrating, he realized immediately, like the mood that engendered it. He was shocked at himself and glad she did not answer. Instead, she gave him her hand that he might help her over the low wall.
"See," she said, "your grandmother has a light in her room. She is lying in bed reading good books."
"Does she read them to you?"
"A little word sometimes when I go in to say good-night."
"Grannie's a saint."