Harmony, in the blue kimono, gave a little gasp, and flung round her shoulders the mass of pink on which she had been working.
“Please go out!” she said. “I am not dressed.”
“You are covered,” returned Anna Gates. “That's all that any sort of clothing can do. Don't mind her, Peter, and sit on the bed. Look out for pins!”
Peter, however, did not sit down. He stood just inside the closed door and stared at Harmony—Harmony in the red light from the little open door of the stove; Harmony in blue and pink and a bit of white petticoat; Harmony with her hair over her shoulders and tied out of her eyes with an encircling band of rosy flannel.
“Do sit!” cried Anna Gates. “You fill the room so. Bless you, Peter, what a collar!”
No man likes to know his collar is soiled, especially on the eve of proposing marriage to a pink and blue and white vision. Peter, seated now on the bed, writhed.
“I rapped at Miss Wells's door,” he said. “You were not there.”
This last, of course, to Harmony.
Anna Gates sniffed.
“Naturally!”