"Of course," said Peter. "Why, of course, I wrote him. I sent him word when we first got here, to tell him you were well."
"How could you! Oh, how could you!"
At her tone, the inexplicable reproach of it, he lost his gay assurance. Peter forgot the others. There was nobody in the room, to his eager consciousness, but Rose and his erring self; for somehow, most innocently, he had offended her. He took a step toward her, his boyish face all melted into contrition. There might have been tears in his eyes, they were so soft.
"Sit down," he implored her. "Rose! What have I done?"
It was like a sorry child asking pardon. Electra gave him a quick look, and then went on watching. At the tone Rose also was recalled. She shook herself a little, as if she threw off dreams. Her hand upon the cabinet relaxed. Her face softened, the pose of her body yielded, She seemed almost, by some power of the will, to bring new color into her cheeks. Peter had drawn forward her chair, and she took it smilingly.
"I'm not accustomed to long-lost fathers appearing unannounced," she said whimsically. "Dear me! What if he brings me a Paris gown!"
But Peter was standing before her, still with an air of deep solicitude.
"It was a shock, wasn't it?" he kept repeating. "What a duffer I am!"
"It was a shock," said Electra, with an incisive confirmation. "Mayn't I get you something? A glass of wine?"
Rose looked at her quite pleasantly before Peter had time to begin his persuasive recommendation that she should spare herself.