find the right person; he might suggest taking Anna’s place himself, and insist that his presence in the apartment would be as justifiable as Peter’s; or he might do at once the thing Peter felt he would do eventually, cut the knot of the difficulty by asking Harmony to marry him. Peter, greeting him pleasantly, decided not to tell him anything, to keep him away if possible until the thing was straightened out, and to wait for an hour at the club in the hope that a solution might stroll in for chocolate and gossip.
In any event explanation to McLean would have required justification. Peter disliked the idea. He could humble himself, if necessary, to a woman; he could admit his asininity in assuming the responsibility of Jimmy, for instance, and any woman worthy of the name, or worthy of living in the house with Harmony, would understand. But McLean was young, intolerant. He was more than that, though Peter, concealing from himself just what Harmony meant to him, would not have admitted a rival for what he had never claimed. But a rival the boy was. Peter, calmly reading a magazine and drinking his Munich beer, was in the grip of the fiercest jealousy. He turned pages automatically, to recall nothing of what he had read.
McLean, sitting across from him, watched him surreptitiously. Big Peter, aggressively masculine, heavy of shoulder, direct of speech and eye, was to him the embodiment of all that a woman should desire in a man. He, too, was jealous, but humbly so. Unlike Peter he knew his situation, was young enough to glory in it. Shameless love is always young; with years comes discretion, perhaps loss of confidence. The Crusaders were youths, pursuing an idea to the ends of the earth and flaunting a lady’s guerdon from spear or saddle-bow. The older men among them tucked the handkerchief or bit of a gauntleted glove under jerkin and armor near the heart, and flung to the air the guerdon of some light o’ love. McLean would have shouted Harmony’s name from the housetops. Peter did not acknowledge even to himself that he was in love with her.
It occurred to McLean after a time that Peter being in the club, and Harmony being in all probability at home, it might be possible to see her alone for a few minutes. He had not intended to go back to the house in the Siebensternstrasse so soon after being peremptorily put out; he had come to the club with the intention of clinching his resolution with a game of cribbage. But fate was playing into his hands. There was no cribbage player round, and Peter himself sat across deeply immersed in a magazine. McLean rose, not stealthily, but without unnecessary noise.
So far so good. Peter turned a page and went on reading. McLean sauntered to a window, hands in pockets. He even whistled a trifle, under his breath, to prove how very casual were his intentions. Still whistling, he moved toward the door. Peter turned another page, which was curiously soon to have read two columns of small type without illustrations.
Once out in the hall McLean’s movements gained aim and precision. He got his coat, hat and stick, flung the first over his arm and the second on his head, and—
“Going out?” asked Peter calmly.
“Yes, nothing to do here. I’ve read all the infernal old magazines until I ‘m sick of them.” Indignant, too, from his tone.
“Walking?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I go with you?”
“Not at all.”
Peter, taking down his old overcoat from its hook, turned and caught the boy’s eye. It was a swift exchange of glances, but illuminating—Peter’s whimsical, but with a sort of grim determination; McLean’s sheepish, but equally determined.
“Rotten afternoon,” said McLean as they started for the stairs. “Half rain, half snow. Streets are ankle- deep.”
“I’m not particularly keen about walking, but—I don’t care for this tomb alone.”
Nothing was further from McLean’s mind than a walk with Peter that afternoon. He hesitated halfway down the upper flight.
“You don’t care for cribbage, do you?”
“Don’t know anything about it. How about pinochle?”
They had both stopped, equally determined, equally hesitating.
“Pinochle it is,” acquiesced McLean. “I was only going because there was nothing to do.”
Things went very well for Peter that afternoon—up to a certain point. He beat McLean unmercifully, playing with cold deliberation. McLean wearied, fidgeted, railed at his luck. Peter played on grimly.
The club filled up toward the coffee-hour. Two or three women, wives of members, a young girl to whom McLean had been rather attentive before he met Harmony and who bridled at the abstracted bow he gave her. And, finally, when hope in Peter was dead, one of the women on Anna’s list.
Peter, laying down pairs and marking up score, went over Harmony’s requirements. Dr. Jennings seemed to fit them all, a woman, not young, not too stout, agreeable and human. She was a large, almost bovinely placid person, not at all reminiscent of Anna. She was neat where Anna had been disorderly, well dressed and breezy against Anna’s dowdiness and sharpness. Peter, having totaled the score, rose and looked down at McLean.
“You’re a nice lad,” he said, smiling. “Sometime I shall teach you the game.”
“How about a lesson to-night in Seven-Star Street?”
“To-night? Why, I’m sorry. We have an engagement for to-night.”
The “we” was deliberate and cruel. McLean writhed. Also the statement was false, but the boy was spared that knowledge for the moment.
Things went well. Dr. Jennings was badly off for quarters. She would make a change if she could better herself. Peter drew her off to a corner and stated his case. She listened attentively, albeit not without disapproval.
She frankly discredited the altruism of Peter’s motives when he told her about Harmony. But as the recital went on she found herself rather touched. The story of Jimmy appealed to her. She scolded and lauded Peter in one breath, and what was more to the point, she promised to visit the house in the Siebensternstrasse the next day.
