Osmond stopped and laid a hand on a boulder at the termination of their way, where the lane opened into plowed fields. He looked off through the distance as if he saw the courts of the world and all the roads that run to fame. His eyes were burning. The hand trembled upon the rock.
"By George!" he said, "it's amazing."
"What is, Osmond?"
"It's amazing that the world can hold so much for one man. You wouldn't think there would be water enough in all the rivers for one man to drink so deep. What does Electra say?"
"About the painting? Nothing yet."
"Didn't you speak of it? Why, you're covered with laurel, boy, like Jack-in-the-Green. She couldn't help seeing it."
Peter, brought back to that luckless interview with the imperial lady, felt shamefaced in his knowledge of it.
"We didn't get to that," he said. "We were talking about Rose. Who do you think she is, Osmond?"
"Tom's widow. So you said."
"Yes, but what more? She's the daughter of Markham MacLeod."