Peter spoke without turning.
“Try to bear up under it,” he said. “I’m home and hungry, sweetheart!”
“Peter, please!”
Peter turned at that and rose instantly. It was rather dark in the salon and he did not immediately recognize Mrs. Boyer. But that keen-eyed lady had known him before he turned, had taken in the domesticity of the scene and Peter’s part in it, and had drawn the swift conclusion of the pure of heart.
“I’ll come again,” she said hurriedly. “I—I must really get home. Dr. Boyer will be there, and wondering—”
“Mrs. Boyer!” Peter knew her.
“Oh, Dr. Byrne, isn’t it? How unexpected to find you here!”
“I live here.”
“So I surmised.”
“Three of us,” said Peter. “You know Anna Gates, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid not. Really I—”
Peter was determined to explain. His very eagerness was almost damning.
“She and Miss Wells are keeping house here and have kindly taken me in as a boarder. Please sit down.”
Harmony found nothing strange in the situation and was frankly puzzled at Peter. The fact that there was anything unusual in two single women and one unmarried man, unrelated and comparative strangers, setting up housekeeping together had never occurred to her. Many a single woman whom she knew at home took a gentleman into the house as a roomer, and thereafter referred to him as “he” and spent hours airing the curtains of smoke and even, as “he” became a member of the family, in sewing on his buttons. There was nothing indecorous about such an arrangement; merely a concession to economic pressure.
She made tea, taking off her jacket and gloves to do it, but bustling about cheerfully, with her hat rather awry and her cheeks flushed with excitement and hope. Just now, when the Frau Professor had gone, the prospect of a music pupil meant everything. An American child, too! Fond as Harmony was of children, the sedate and dignified youngsters who walked the parks daily with a governess, or sat with folded hands and fixed eyes through hours of heavy music at the opera, rather daunted her. They were never alone, those Austrian children—always under surveillance, always restrained, always prepared to kiss the hand of whatever relative might be near and to take themselves of to anywhere so it were somewhere else.
“I am so glad you are going to talk to me about an American child,” said Harmony, bringing in the tea.
But Mrs. Boyer was not so sure she was going to talk about the American child. She was not sure of anything, except that the household looked most irregular, and that Peter Byrne was trying to cover a difficult situation with much conversation. He was almost glib, was Peter. The tea was good; that was one thing.
She sat back with her muff on her knee, having refused the concession of putting it on a chair as savoring too much of acceptance if not approval, and sipped her tea out of a spoon as becomes a tea-lover. Peter, who loathed tea, lounged about the room, clearly in the way, but fearful to leave Harmony alone with her. She was quite likely, at the first opportunity, to read her a lesson on the conventions, if nothing worse; to upset the delicate balance of the little household he was guarding. So he stayed, praying for Anna to come and bear out his story, while Harmony toyed with her spoon and waited for some mention of the lessons. None came. Mrs. Boyer, having finished her tea, rose and put down her cup.
“That was very refreshing,” she said. “Where shall I find the street-car? I walked out, but it is late.”
“I’ll take you to the car.” Peter picked up his old hat.
“Thank you. I am always lost in this wretched town. I give the conductors double tips to put me down where I want to go; but how can they when it is the wrong car?” She bowed to Harmony without shaking hands. “Thank you for the tea. It was really good. Where do you get it?”
“There is a tea-shop a door or two from the Grand Hotel.”
“I must remember that. Thank you again. Good-bye.”
Not a word about the lessons or the American child!
“You said something about my card in the Doctors’ Club—”
Something wistful in the girl’s eyes caught and held Mrs. Boyer.
After all she was the mother of daughters. She held out her hand and her voice was not so hard.
“That will have to wait until another time. I have made a social visit and we’ll not spoil it with business.”
“But—”
“I really think the boy’s mother must attend to that herself. But I shall tell her where to find you, and”—here she glanced at Peter—“all about it.”
“Thank you,” said Harmony gratefully.
Peter had no finesse. He escorted Mrs. Boyer across the yard and through the gate with hardly a word. With the gate closed behind them he turned and faced her:—
“You are going away with a wrong impression, Mrs. Boyer.”
Mrs. Boyer had been thinking hard as she crossed the yard. The result was a resolution to give Peter a piece of her mind. She drew her ample proportions into a dignity that was almost majesty.
“Yes?”
“I—I can understand why you think as you do. It is quite without foundation.”
“I am glad of that.” There was no conviction in her voice.
