"It's the best thing out," he affirmed. "It's the top bubble on the biggest wave." Then he too, because the song had ceased, began one on his own account, with an inward rueful apology to his broken heart. For the song should have been a sad one, but Peter could not paint when the vibrations lagged, and so he made it gay.
Osmond followed the voice, and met Rose in the sitting-room, where she stood waiting for him. She wore a morning gown of demure dimity, with a little ruffle about her singing throat. When she saw him, she laughed, for no reason. Then she blushed. For Osmond was not the same. He came up to her and took her hands.
"You don't look like a goddess," he said.
They were smiling at each other out of an equal hope.
"I'm not a goddess. I'm just girl."
"Not a terrible Parisian?"
She looked down at her dress, that had wrought the simplicity.
"I put it on for you," she said. "You didn't like my chiffons that other night."
"How did you know I should come?"
"You knew it. Why shouldn't I know it? Are the wires down?"