McLean had worked himself into a very fair passion. He was intense, almost theatrical, as he stood with folded arms waiting for Harmony. So entirely did the girl fill his existence that he forgot, or did not care to remember, how short a time he had known her. As Harmony she dominated his life and his thoughts; as Harmony he addressed her when, rather startled, she entered the salon and stood just inside the closed door.
“Peter said you wanted to speak to me.”
McLean groaned. “Peter!” he said. “It is always Peter. Look here, Harmony, you cannot stay here.”
“It is only for a few hours. Tomorrow some one is coming. And, anyhow, Peter is going to Semmering. We know it is unusual, but what can we do?”
“Unusual! It’s—it’s damnable. It’s the appearance of the thing, don’t you see that?”
“I think it is rather silly to talk of appearance when there is no one to care. And how can I leave? Jimmy needs me all the time—”
“That’s another idiocy of Peter’s. What does he mean by putting you in this position?”
“I am one of Peter’s idiocies.”
Peter entered on that. He took in the situation with a glance, and Harmony turned to him; but if she had expected Peter to support her, she was disappointed. Whatever decision she was to make must be her own, in Peter’s troubled mind. He crossed the room and stood at one of the windows, looking out, a passive participant in the scene.
The day had been a trying one for Harmony. What she chose to consider Peter’s defection was a fresh stab. She glanced from McLean, flushed and excited, to Peter’s impassive back. Then she sat down, rather limp, and threw out her hands helplessly.
“What am I to do?” she demanded. “Every one comes with cruel things to say, but no one tells me what to do.”
Peter turned away from the window.
“You can leave here,” ventured McLean. “That’s the first thing. After that—”
“Yes, and after that, what?”
McLean glanced at Peter. Then he took a step toward the girl.
“You could marry me, Harmony,” he said unsteadily. “I hadn’t expected to tell you so soon, or before a third person.” He faltered before Harmony’s eyes, full of bewilderment. “I’d be very happy if you—if you could see it that way. I care a great deal, you see.”
It seemed hours to Peter before she made any reply, and that her voice came from miles away.
“Is it really as bad as that?” she asked. “Have I made such a mess of things that some one, either you or Peter, must marry me to straighten things out? I don’t want to marry any one. Do I have to?”
“Certainly you don’t have to,” said Peter. There was relief in his voice, relief and also something of exultation. “McLean, you mean well, but marriage isn’t the solution. We were getting along all right until our friends stepped in. Let Mrs. Boyer howl all over the colony; there will be one sensible woman somewhere to come and be comfortable here with us. In the interval we’ll manage, unless Harmony is afraid. In that case—”
“Afraid of what?”
The two men exchanged glances, McLean helpless, Peter triumphant.
“I do not care what Mrs. Boyer says, at least not much. And I am not afraid of anything else at all.”
McLean picked up his overcoat.
“At least,” he appealed to Peter, “you’ll come over to my place?”
“No!” said Peter.
McLean made a final appeal to Harmony.
“If this gets out,” he said, “you are going to regret it all your life.”
“I shall have nothing to regret,” she retorted proudly.
Had Peter not been there McLean would have made a better case, would have pleaded with her, would have made less of a situation that roused her resentment and more of his love for her. He was very hard hit, very young. He was almost hysterical with rage and helplessness; he wanted to slap her, to take her in his arms. He writhed under the restraint of Peter’s steady eyes.
He got to the door and turned, furious.
“Then it’s up to you,” he flung at Peter. “You’re old enough to know better; she isn’t. And don’t look so damned superior. You’re human, like the rest of us. And if any harm comes to her—”
Here unexpectedly Peter held out his hand, and after a sheepish moment McLean took it.
“Goodnight, old man,” said Peter. “And—don’t be an ass.”
As was Peter’s way, the words meant little, the tone much. McLean knew what in his heart he had known all along—that the girl was safe enough; that all that was to fear was the gossip of scandal-lovers. He took Peter’s hand, and then going to Harmony stood before her very erect.
“I suppose I’ve said too much; I always do,” he said contritely. “But you know the reason. Don’t forget the reason, will you?”
“I am only sorry.”
He bent over and kissed her hand lingeringly. It was a tragic moment for him, poor lad! He turned and went blindly out the door and down the dark stone staircase. It was rather anticlimax, after all that, to have Peter
