But that was a matter of the
future; the necessity was immediate.
The night was very cold. Gusts of wind from the snow-covered
Schneeberg drove along the streets, making each corner a fortress
defended by the elements, a battlement to be seized, lost, seized
again. Peter Byrne battled valiantly but mechanically. And as he
fought he made his decision.
He acted with characteristic promptness. Possibly, too, he was
afraid of the strength of his own resolution. By morning sanity
might prevail, and in cold daylight he would see the absurdity of
his position. He almost ran up the winding staircase. At the top
his cold fingers fumbled the key and he swore under his breath.
He slammed the door behind him. Peter always slammed doors, and
had an apologetic way of opening the door again and closing it
gently, as if to show that he could. Harmony's room was dark,
but he had surprised her once into a confession that when she was
very downhearted she liked to sit in the dark and be very blue
indeed. So he stopped and knocked. There was no reply, but from
Dr. Gates's room across there came a hum of conversation. He knew
at once that Harmony was there.
Peter hardly hesitated. He took off his soft hat and ran a hand
over his hair, and he straightened his tie. These preliminaries
to a proposal of marriage being disposed of, he rapped at the
door.
Anna Gates opened it. She wore a hideous red-flannel wrapper, and
in deference to Harmony a thimble.
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