In the interval we'll
manage, unless Harmony is afraid. In that case--"
"Afraid of what?"
The two men exchanged glances, McLean helpless, Peter triumphant.
"I do not care what Mrs. Boyer says, at least not much. And I am
not afraid of anything else at all."
McLean picked up his overcoat.
"At least," he appealed to Peter, "you'll come over to my place?"
"No!" said Peter.
McLean made a final appeal to Harmony.
"If this gets out," he said, "you are going to regret it all your
life."
"I shall have nothing to regret," she retorted proudly.
Had Peter not been there McLean would have made a better case,
would have pleaded with her, would have made less of a situation
that roused her resentment and more of his love for her. He was
very hard hit, very young. He was almost hysterical with rage and
helplessness; he wanted to slap her, to take her in his arms. He
writhed under the restraint of Peter's steady eyes.
He got to the door and turned, furious.
"Then it's up to you," he flung at Peter. "You're old enough to
know better; she isn't. And don't look so damned superior. You're
human, like the rest of us. And if any harm comes to her--"
Here unexpectedly Peter held out his hand, and after a sheepish
moment McLean took it.
"Good-night, old man," said Peter. "And--don't be an ass."
As was Peter's way, the words meant little, the tone much. McLean
knew what in his heart he had known all along--that the girl was
safe enough; that all that was to fear was the gossip of
scandal-lovers.
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