Peter nodded in entire acquiescence.
"I don't know what grannie looks like," he said. He was gazing into the glass of water, as if it were a crystal and he could find the answer there. "I've been trying to think. Like a baby—with a sort of innocence—like a fate, a kind one,—like the earth goddess. If I've put in all I see, it's a corker."
"It's the mother look," said Osmond. "But it is a corker, safe enough."
They parted with a nod, but Peter stopped.
"Hear that!" he said.
Rose was singing. The song began so triumphantly, with such dash and splendor, that it was almost like improvising. Osmond felt it like a call. He went on to the house, and Peter, after that moment of listening, also kept on the way that took him to his work. He, too, walked with quickened step, and there was light in his eyes. All the vibrations of his being quickened to the song; but he was thinking what a stunning world it was to have such things in it: paint and canvas and disturbing songs and broken hearts. The song ceased suddenly. He knew why. Osmond had gone into the room and Rose had met him. Peter sighed. Then he laughed, took grannie's empty glass from her, and sat down to work.
"It's a funny world, grannie," he remarked.
Grannie smiled at him. She understood him also, though he was not in her heart as Osmond was.
"You like your work, don't you, Peter?" she remarked. "It's just the right thing for you."
Peter plunged at it.