"Let us not talk any more," she was saying, with that air of extreme courtesy which still invited him to go.
Peter walked slowly to the door.
"I am wondering"—he hesitated. "Why do you say that, Electra? Why do you tell me I am in love with her?"
He looked as shy as a girl. It struck her full in the mind that even in this interview she had no part. She had refused a lover, and he was going away with his thoughts stirred by another woman.
"I said so," she repeated clearly, "because it is true. You are in love with her. Good-by."
Peter turned to her with one of his quick movements and held out his hand. She did not take it.
"Won't you shake hands, Electra?" he asked. "I should think we might be friends." Honest sorrow moved his voice. Now, at least, he was thinking of her only.
Electra meant to show no resentment, no pain. But she had to be true.
"I can't," she said, in a low tone. "Good-by."
And Peter, seeing the aversion in her face, not for him, perhaps, but for the moment, got himself hastily out of the room and into the summer road. And there, before he had walked three paces, Peter began to sing. He sang softly, not at all because melody was unfitted to the day, but as if what inspired it were too intimate a thing to be revealed. He looked above him, straight ahead, and on every side.