They sat smiling over it. Peter had amazingly cooled. He rose to his feet.
"Well," he said, "I'll paint some pictures. Of course I'll paint my pictures—sometime. There's the Brotherhood again. Don't I want to turn in shekels? Don't I want to have it known that such weight as my name carries is going in there?"
It was Osmond's turn to rage. He, too, rose, and they confronted each other. Osmond spoke. His voice trembled, it seemed with emotion that was not anger but a fervor for great things.
"I cannot get it through my head. You can do the thing, and it's I that value it. You can paint pictures and you'd prostitute the thing for money,—for reputation. If I had it, if I had that gift"—he paused, and shook his head as if he shook a mane. Peter was looking at him curiously. This was passion such as he had never seen in any man.
"What would you do, old chap?" he asked.
Osmond was ashamed of his display, but he had to answer.
"I would guard it," he said, "as a man would guard—a woman."
They stood silent, their eyes not meeting now, hardly knowing how to get away from each other. As if she had been evolved by his mention of precious womanhood, Electra, in her phaeton, drove swiftly by. They took off their hats, glad of the break in the moment's tension; but she did not turn that way.
"Could she be going to see her?" Peter asked in haste.
"To see her?"