"Would you stay at home?"

"Who knows, I being I? And my husband did not love me. It was the boy
always. There is only one thing worth while--the love of a good man. I
have lived, lived hard. And I know."

"But supposing that one has real ability--I mean some achievement
already, and a promise--"

Le Grande turned and looked at Harmony shrewdly.

"I see. You are a musician, I believe?"

"Yes."

"And--it is Dr. Byrne?"

"Yes."

Le Grande bent forward earnestly.

"My child," she said, "if one man in all the world looked at me as your
doctor looks at you, I--I would be a better woman."

"And my music?"

"Play for your children, as you played for my little boy."

Peter was packing: wrapping medical books in old coats, putting clean
collars next to boots, folding pajamas and such-like negligible garments
with great care and putting in his dresscoat in a roll. His pipes took
time, and the wooden sentry he packed with great care and a bit of
healthy emotion. Once or twice he came across trifles of Harmony's, and
he put them carefully aside--the sweater coat, a folded handkerchief,
a bow she had worn at her throat. The bow brought back the night before
and that reckless kiss on her white throat. Well for Peter to get away
if he is to keep his resolution, when the sight of a ribbon bow can
bring that look of suffering into his eyes.

The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot, any foot
at all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor.

"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen," he sang at the top of his
voice, and coughed, a bit of floor wax having got into the air. The
antlers of the deer from the wild-game shop hung now in his bedroom.
When the wildgame seller came over for coffee there would be a
discussion probably. But were not the antlers of all deer similar?

The Portier's wife came to the doorway with a cooking fork in her hand.

"A cab," she announced, "with a devil's imp on the box. Perhaps it is
that American dancer. Run and pretty thyself!"

It was too late for more than an upward twist of a mustache. Harmony
was at the door, but not the sad-eyed Harmony of a week before or the
undecided and troubled girl of before that. A radiant Harmony, this, who
stood in the doorway, who wished them good-morning, and ran up the old
staircase with glowing eyes and a heart that leaped and throbbed. A
woman now, this Harmony, one who had looked on life and learned; one
who had chosen