Harmony enlisted the Portier, and took him across with
her. The wild-game seller was obdurate. He would sell the deer
entire, or he would mount head and antlers for his wife's cousin
in Galicia as a Christmas gift.
Harmony went back to the lodge and climbed the stairs. She was
profoundly depressed. Even the discovery that Peter had come home
early and was building a fire in the kitchen brought only a
fleeting smile. Anna was not yet home.
Peter built the fire. The winter dusk was falling and Harmony
made a movement to light the candles. Peter stopped her.
"Can't we have the firelight for a little while? You are always
beautiful, but--you are lovely in the firelight, Harmony."
"That is because you like me. We always think our friends are
beautiful."
"I am fond of Anna, but I have never thought her beautiful."
The kitchen was small. Harmony, rolling up her sleeves by the
table, and Peter before the stove were very close together. The
dusk was fast fading into darkness; to this tiny room at the back
of the old house few street sounds penetrated. Round them,
shutting them off together from the world of shops with lighted
windows, rumbling busses and hurrying humanity, lay the old lodge
with its dingy gardens, its whitewashed halls, its dark and
twisting staircases.
Peter had been very careful. He had cultivated a comradely manner
with the girl that had kept her entirely at her ease with him.
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