not particularly
religious hope of getting to sleep, was dreaming placidly. 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.

CHAPTER XI

The affairs of young Stewart and Marie Jedlicka were not moving
smoothly. Having rented their apartment to the Boyers, and through
Marie's frugality and the extra month's wages at Christmas, which was
Marie's annual perquisite, being temporarily in funds the sky seemed
clear enough, and Walter Stewart started on his holiday with a
comfortable sense of financial security.

Mrs. Boyer, shown over the flat by Stewart during Marie's temporary
exile in the apartment across the hall, was captivated by the comfort of
the little suite and by its order. Her housewifely mind, restless with
long inactivity in a pension, seized on the bright pans of Marie's
kitchen and the promise of the brick-and-sheetiron stove. She
disapproved of Stewart, having heard strange stories of him, but there
was nothing bacchanal or suspicious about this orderly establishment.
Mrs. Boyer was a placid, motherly looking woman, torn from her church
and her card c