The door was not locked. Perhaps Peter was not up—not dressed. What did that matter? What did anything matter but Peter himself?
Peter, sorting out lectures on McBurney's Point, had come across a bit of paper that did not belong there, and was sitting by his open trunk, staring blindly at it:—
“You are very kind to me. Yes, indeed.
“H. W.”
Quite the end now, with Harmony running across the room and dropping down on her knees among a riot of garments—down on her knees, with one arm round Peter's neck, drawing his tired head lower until she could kiss him.
“Oh, Peter, Peter, dear!” she cried. “I'll love you all my life if only you'll love me, and never, never let me go!”
Peter was dazed at first. He put his arms about her rather unsteadily, because he had given her up and had expected to go through the rest of life empty of arm and heart. And when one has one's arms set, as one may say, for loneliness and relinquishment it is rather difficult—Ah, but Peter got the way of it swiftly.
“Always,” he said incoherently; “forever the two of us. Whatever comes, Harmony?”
“Whatever comes.”
“And you'll not be sorry?”