"You will excuse me, won't you? I ought to go to grandmother. She is far from strong."
Rose answered quickly,—
"Forgive me! I will go. But"—she had reached the door, and paused there entreatingly—"when may I see you again?"
"Grandmother's coming will keep me rather busy," said Electra, in her brilliant manner. "But I shall take great pleasure in returning your visit. Good-by."
Rose, walking fast, was out upon the road again, blind to everything save anger, against herself, against the world. She had come to America upon an impulse, a daring one, sure that here were friendliness and safety such as she had never known. She had found a hostile camp, and every fibre in her thrilled in savage misery. Half way along the distance home Peter came eagerly forward to her from the roadside where he had been kicking his heels and fuming. The visit to Osmond had not been made. At the plantation gate he had turned back, unable to curb his desire to know what had gone on between these two. At once he read the signs of her distress, the angry red in her cheeks, the dilated eye. Even her nostrils seemed to breathe defiance or hurt pride. She spoke with unconsidered bitterness.
"I ought never to have come."
"What was it? Tell me."
"It was nothing. I was received as an ordinary caller. That was all."
"Who received you?"
"She. Electra."