range, the Americans!" she said to latrine. "And if to be
lovely one must bathe daily, and sleep with open windows--"

Harmony had slept soundly after all. Her pique at Byrne had passed
with the reading of his note, and the sensation of his protection and
nearness had been almost physical. In the virginal little apartment in
the lodge of Maria Theresa the only masculine presence had been that
of the Portier, carrying up coals at ninety Hellers a bucket, or of the
accompanist who each alternate day had played for the Big Soprano to
practice. And they had felt no deprivation, except for those occasional
times when Scatchy developed a reckless wish to see the interior of a
dancing-hall or one of the little theaters that opened after the opera.

But, as calmly as though she had never argued alone with a cabman or
disputed the bill at the delicatessen shop, Harmony had thrown herself
on the protection of this shabby big American whom she had met but
once, and, having done so, slept like a baby. Not, of course, that
she realized her dependence. She had felt very old and experienced and
exceedingly courageous as she put out her light the night before and
took a flying leap into the bed. She was still old and experienced, if a
trifle less courageous, that Sunday morning.

Promptly in ten minutes Olga brought the breakfast, two rolls, two pats
of butter--shades of the sleeping mistress and Katrina the thrifty--and
a cup of coffee. On the tray was a bit of paper torn from a notebook:--

"Part of the prescription is an occasional walk in good company. Will
you walk with me this afternoon? I would come in person to ask you, but
am spending the morning in my bathrobe, while my one remaining American
suit is being pressed.

"P. B."

Harmony got the ink and her pen from her trunk and wrote below:--

"You are very kind to me. Yes, indeed.

"H. W."

When frequent slamming of doors and steps along the passageway told
Harmony that the pension was fully awake, she got out her violin.
The idea of work obsessed her. To-morrow there would be the hunt for
something to do to supplement her resources, this afternoon she had
rashly promised to walk. The morning, then, must be given up to work.
But after all she did little.

For an hour, perhaps, she practiced. The little Bulgarian paused outside
her door and listened, rapt, his eyes closed. Peter Byrne, listening
while he sorted lecture memoranda at his little table in bathrobe and
sl