“Not your sort of women or your sort of work. And not my sort of man, Harry. I'm jealous—jealous of every one about you. It would have to be the music or me.”
“And you make the choice!” said Harmony proudly. “Very well, Peter, I shall do as you say. But I think it is a very curious sort of love.”
“I wonder,” Peter cried, “if you realize what love it is that loves you enough to give you up.”
“You have not asked me if I care, Peter.”
Peter looked at her. She was very near to tears, very sad, very beautiful.
“I'm afraid to ask,” said Peter, and picking up his hat he made for the door. There he turned, looked back, was lost.
“My sweetest heart!” he cried, and took her in his hungry arms. But even then, with her arms about his neck at last, with her slender body held to him, her head on his shoulder, his lips to her soft throat, Peter put her from him as a starving man might put away food.
He held her off and looked at her.
“I'm a fool and a weakling,” he said gravely. “I love you so much that I would sacrifice you. You are very lovely, my girl, my girl! As long as I live I shall carry your image in my heart.”
Ah, what the little Georgiev had said on his way to the death that waited down the staircase. Peter, not daring to look at her again, put away her detaining hand, squared his shoulders, went to the door.