"Good-by, my dear," she said. "I'm sorry I've harried you. I had to, though. I should again. Now we'll meet in Paris, or London—or another world."
Electra, a perfect picture of the well-equipped traveler, in her beautiful suit, her erect pose, was at the door.
"The maids will go in an hour," she said. "Then you've only to turn the key and walk over to Mrs. Grant's. I wish you'd had your trunks taken out before."
"My trunks can wait," chuckled the old lady. "They'll be sent for."
As Electra's carriage turned from the driveway into the road, Madam Fulton laughed again.
Electra had five minutes at the station, and there appeared Peter, wearing the air of haste. He had been painting in the garden, when the carriage went by, and he had dropped brush and palette to run. Why, Peter could not have said, only it seemed cold and miserable to have an imperial lady taking the train alone and then setting sail with no one by.
"You wouldn't let me go up to town with you?" he ventured, with his eager stammer.
"No," returned Electra, "thank you."
"I'd like to awfully," said Peter. "Maybe I could be of use."
"Everything is done. My luggage is on board. We sail at three."