Electra looked at him seriously, and his heart sank. Peter had been thinking straight thoughts and swearing by crude values in these five years when he had lived with men and women who said what they meant, things often foolish and outrageous, but usually honest, and his mind had got a trick of asserting itself. None of the judgments it had been called upon to make seemed to matter vitally; but this one disconcertingly did, and to his horror he found himself wondering if Electra could possibly mean to be so hateful. Electra meant nothing of the kind. She had a pure desire toward the truth, and she assumed that Peter's desire tallied with her own. She felt very strongly on the point in question, and she saw no reason why he should not offer the greatest hospitality toward her convictions.
"Peter," she said at once, "you must not talk to me about that woman."
"So she said," Peter was on the point of irresistibly retorting, but he contented himself with the weak make-shift that at least gains time,—
"What woman?"
"Markham MacLeod's daughter."
"Tom's wife? Tom's widow?"
Electra looked at him in definite reproof.
"You must not do that, Peter," she warned him. "You must not speak of her in that way."
"For God's sake, why not, Electra?"
"That is not her title. You must not give it to her."