Electra was looking at her grandmother at last and in a patient hopefulness, like one awaiting a better mood.
"Grandmother dear," she protested, "it almost seems as if you owe it to the world, having said so much, to say a little more."
"What, for instance, Electra? What?"
Electra considered, one hand smoothing out the page.
"People want to know things about it. The newspapers do. How can you think for a moment of the discussion there has been, and not expect questions?"
The old lady smiled to herself.
"Well," she said, "they won't find out."
"But why, grandmother, why?"
"I can't tell you why, Electra; but they won't, and there's an end of it." She rose from her chair, and Electra, gathering her mail, followed punctiliously. As they were leaving the room, her grandmother turned upon her. "Did you hear from Peter?" she asked.
"Yes. From New York. He will be here to-morrow." Electra's clear, well-considered look was very unlike that of a girl whose lover had come home, after a five years' absence, for the avowed purpose of marriage.