It was Peter who tossed and turned almost all
night. Truly there had been little sleep that night in the old
hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa.
Peter, still not quite at ease, that evening kept out of the
kitchen while supper was preparing. Anna, radical theories
forgotten and wearing a knitted shawl against drafts, was making
a salad, and Harmony, all anxiety and flushed with heat, was
broiling a steak.
Steak was an extravagance, to be cooked with clear hot coals and
prayer.
"Peter," she called, "you may set the table. And try to lay the
cloth straight."
Peter, exiled in the salon, came joyously. Obviously the wretched
business of yesterday was forgiven. He came to the door, pipe in
mouth.
"Suppose I refuse?" he questioned. "You--you haven't been very
friendly with me to-day, Harry."
"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.'"
"Good-evening, Peter, dear," said Harmony.
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