"You are hurting me very much, Harry," he said. "Do you know
why?"
"I? I am only sorry about Anna. I miss her. I--I was fond of
her."
"So was I. But that isn't it, Harry. It's something else."
"I'm uncomfortable, Peter."
"So am I. I'm sorry you don't trust me. For that's it."
"Not at all. But, Peter, what will people say?"
"A great deal, if they know. Who is to know? How many people know
about us? A handful, at the most, McLean and Mrs. Boyer and one
or two others. Of course I can go away until we get some one to
take Anna's place, but you'd be here alone at night, and if the
youngster had an attack--"
"Oh, no, don't leave him!"
"It's holiday time. There are no clinics until next week. If
you'll put up with me--"
"Put up with you, when it is your apartment I use, your food I
eat!" She almost choked. "Peter, I must talk about money."
"I'm coming to that. Don't you suppose you more than earn
everything? Doesn't it humiliate me hourly to see you working
here?"
"Peter! Would you rob me of my last vestige of self-respect?"
This being unanswerable, Peter fell back on his major premise.
"If you'll put up with me for a day or so I'll take this list of
Anna's and hunt up some body. Just describe the person you desire
and I'll find her." He assumed a certainty he was far from
feeling, but it reassured the girl. "A woman, of course?"
"Of course. And not young."
"'Not young,'" wrote Peter.
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