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.
“Good-night, 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 discover he had gone without his hat and toss it down to him a flight below.
All the frankness had gone out of the relationship between Harmony and Peter. They made painful efforts at ease, talked during the meal of careful abstractions, such as Jimmy, and Peter's proposed trip to Semmering, avoided each other's eyes, ate little or nothing. Once when Harmony passed Peter his coffee-cup their fingers touched, and between them they dropped the cup. Harmony was flushed and pallid by turns, Peter wretched and silent.
Out of the darkness came one ray of light. Stewart had wired from Semmering, urging Peter to come. He would be away for two days. In two days much might happen; Dr. Jennings might come or some one else. In two days some of the restraint would have worn off. Things would never be the same, but they would be forty-eight hours better.