Peter writhed; looked everywhere but at her.
“Please, Peter. You said I always came when you needed me, only—”
“Only—I always need you!” Peter, Peter!
“Not always, I think. Of course, when one is in trouble one needs a woman; but—”
“Well, of course—but—I'm generally in trouble, Harry dear.”
Frightfully ashamed of himself by that time was Peter, ashamed of his weakness. He sought to give a casual air to the speech by stooping for a neglected pin on the carpet. By the time he had stuck it in his lapel he had saved his mental forces from the rout of Harmony's eyes.
His next speech he made to the center table, and missed a most delectable look in the aforesaid eyes.
“I didn't come to be silly,” he said to the table. “I hate people who whine, and I've got into a damnable habit of being sorry for myself! It's to laugh, isn't it, a great, hulking carcass like me, to be—”
“Peter,” said Harmony softly, “aren't you going to look at me?”
“I'm afraid.”