Rose, unquiet over her useless mission to Electra, sought out Peter
where he sat in the sun, his mind swaying in its constant rhythm between
his happy work and his charming dreams. He left the garden chair and
came forward to her, struck by the pathos of her face, and a little
irritated, too, because MacLeod's death was a sorrow past, and it seemed
unfortunate, at least, that there should be so much melancholy in bright
weather.
"Electra is going abroad, you know," she said.