Harmony put down the paring-knife, and going over to where he sat rested a hand on his shoulder. Peter drew away from it.
“I have hurt you in some way?”
“Of course not.”
“Could—could you talk about whatever it is? That helps sometimes.”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“You haven't quarreled with Anna?” Harmony asked, real concern in her voice.
“No. Good Lord, Harmony, don't ask me what's wrong! I don't know myself.”
He got up almost violently and set the little chair back against the wall. Hurt and astonished, Harmony went back to the table. The kitchen was entirely dark, save for the firelight, which gleamed on the bare floor and the red legs of the table. She was fumbling with a match and the candle when she realized that Peter was just behind her, very close.
“Dearest,” he said huskily. The next moment he had caught her to him, was kissing her lips, her hair.
Harmony's heart beat wildly. There was no use struggling against him. The gates of his self-control were down: all his loneliness, his starved senses rushed forth in tardy assertion.