I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it."

"I would rather not talk about it, please."

The banging of a door far off told them that Anna Gates had arrived and
was taking off her galoshes in the entry. Peter drew a long breath, and,
after his habit, shook himself.

"Very well, we'll not talk of it. But, for Heaven's sake, Harmony, don't
avoid me. I'm not a cad. I'll let you alone."

There was only time for a glance of understanding between them, of
promise from Peter, of acceptance from the girl. When Anna Gates entered
the kitchen she found Harmony peeling potatoes and Peter filling up an
already overfed stove.

That night, during that darkest hour before the dawn when the thrifty
city fathers of the old town had shut off the street lights because two
hours later the sun would rise and furnish light that cost the taxpayers
nothing, the Portier's wife awakened.

The room was very silent, too silent. On those rare occasions when the
Portier's wife awakened in the night and heard the twin clocks of the
Votivkirche strike three, and listened, perhaps, while the delicatessen
seller ambled home from the Schubert Society, singing beerily as he
ambled, she was wont to hear from the bed beside hers the rhythmic
respiration that told her how safe from Schubert Societies and such like
evils was her lord. There was no sound at all.

The Portier's wife raised herself on her elbow and reached over. Owing
to the width of the table that stood between the beds and to a sweeping
that day which had left the beds far apart she met nothing but empty
air. Words had small effect on the Portier, who slept fathoms deep in
unconsciousness. Also she did not wish to get up--the floor was cold
and a wind blowing. Could she not hear it and the creaking of the deer
across the street, as it swung on its hook?

The wife of the Portier was a person of resource. She took the iron
candlestick from the table and flung it into the darkness at the
Portier's pillow. No startled yell followed.

Suspicion thus confirmed, the Portier's wife forgot the cold floor and
the wind, and barefoot felt her way into the hall.

Suspicion was doubly confirmed. The chain was off the door; it even
stood open an inch or two.

Armed with a second candlestick she stationed herself inside the door
and waited. The stone floor was icy, but the fury of a woman scorned
kept her warm. The Votivkirche struck one, two, three quarters of an
hour. The candlestick in her hand chang