“I?”
“Don't quarrel, you children,” cried Anna, beating eggs vigorously. “Harmony is always friendly, too friendly. The Portier loves her.”
“I'm sure I said good-evening to you.”
“You usually say, 'Good-evening, Peter.'”
“And I did not?”
“You did not.”
“Then—Good-evening, Peter.”
“Thank you.”
His steady eyes met hers. In them there was a renewal of his yesterday's promise, abasement, regret. Harmony met him with forgiveness and restoration.
“Sometimes,” said Peter humbly, “when I am in very great favor, you say, 'Good-evening, Peter, dear.'”