Harmony was sitting sidewise in a chair by the tea-table with her face hidden against its worn red velvet. She did not look up when he entered. Peter went over and put a hand on her shoulder. She quivered under it and he took it away.
“Crying?”
“A little,” very smothered. “Just dis-disappointment. Don't mind me, Peter.”
“You mean about the pupil?”
Harmony sat up and looked at him. She still wore her hat, now more than ever askew, and some of the dye from the velvet had stained her cheek. She looked rather hectic, very lovely.
“Why did she change so when she saw you?”
Peter hesitated. Afterward he thought of a dozen things he might have said, safe things. Not one came to him.
“She—she is an evil-thinking old woman, Harry,” he said gravely.
“She did not approve of the way we are living here, is that it?”
“Yes.”