“I rather like Patrick—if I thought it might pass as Patrick! Patrick has possibilities. The diminutive is Pat, and that’s not bad. But Peter!”
“Do you know,” Harmony confessed half shyly, “I like Peter as a name.”
“Peter it shall be, then. I go down to posterity and fame as Peter Byrne. The rest doesn’t amount to much, but I want you to know it, since you have been good enough to accept me on faith. I’m here alone, from a little town in eastern Ohio; worked my way through a coeducational college in the West and escaped unmarried; did two years in a drygoods store until, by saving and working in my vacations, I got through medical college and tried general practice. Didn’t like it—always wanted to do surgery. A little legacy from the German uncle, trying to atone for the ‘Augustus,’ gave me enough money to come here. I’ve got a chance with the Days—surgeons, you know—when I go back, if I can hang on long enough. That’s all. Here’s a traveler’s check with my name on it, to vouch for the truth of this thrilling narrative. Gaze on it with awe; there are only a few of them left!”
Harmony was as delicately strung, as vibratingly responsive as the strings of her own violin, and under the even lightness of his tone she felt many things that met a response in her—loneliness and struggle, and the ever-present anxiety about money, grim determination, hope and fear, and even occasional despair. He was still young, but there were lines in his face and a hint of gray in his hair. Even had he been less frank, she would have known soon enough—the dingy little pension, the shabby clothes—
She held out her hand.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said simply. “I think I understand very well because—it’s music with me: violin. And my friends have gone, so I am alone, too.”
He leaned his elbows on the table and looked out over the crowd without seeing it.
“It’s curious, isn’t it?” he said. “Here we are, you and I, meeting in the center of Europe, both lonely as the mischief, both working our heads off for an idea that may never pan out! Why aren’t you at home to-night, eating a civilized beefsteak and running upstairs to get ready for a nice young man to bring you a box of chocolates? Why am I not measuring out calico in Shipley & West’s? Instead, we are going to Frau Schwarz’, to listen to cold ham and scorched compote eaten in six different languages.”
Harmony made no immediate reply. He seemed to expect none. She was drawing on her gloves, her eyes, like his, roving over the crowd.
Far back among the tables a young man rose and yawned. Then, seeing Byrne, he waved a greeting to him. Byrne’s eyes, from being introspective, became watchful.
The young man was handsome in a florid, red-checked way, with black hair and blue eyes. Unlike Byrne, he was foppishly neat. He was not alone. A slim little Austrian girl, exceedingly chic, rose when he did and threw away the end of a cigarette.
“Why do we go so soon?” she demanded fretfully in German. “It is early still.”
He replied in English. It was a curious way they had, and eminently satisfactory, each understanding better than he spoke the other’s language.
“Because, my beloved,” he said lightly, “you are smoking a great many poisonous and highly expensive cigarettes. Also I wish to speak to Peter.”
The girl followed his eyes and stiffened jealously.
“Who is that with Peter?”
“We are going over to find out, little one. Old Peter with a woman at last!”
The little Austrian walked delicately, swaying her slim body with a slow and sensuous grace. She touched an officer as she passed him, and paused to apologize, to the officer’s delight and her escort’s irritation. And Peter Byrne watched and waited, a line of annoyance between his brows. The girl was ahead; that complicated things.
When she was within a dozen feet of the table he rose hastily, with a word of apology, and met the couple. It was adroitly done. He had taken the little Austrian’s arm and led her by the table while he was still greeting her. He held her in conversation in his absurd German until they had reached the swinging doors, while her companion followed helplessly. And he bowed her out, protesting his undying admiration for her eyes, while the florid youth alternately raged behind him and stared back at Harmony, interested and unconscious behind her table.
The little Austrian was on the pavement when Byrne turned, unsmiling, to the other man.
“That won’t do, you know, Stewart,” he said, grave but not unfriendly.
“The Kid wouldn’t bite her.”
“We’ll not argue about it.”
After a second’s awkward pause Stewart smiled.
“Certainly not,” he agreed cheerfully. “That is up to you, of course. I didn’t know. We’re looking for you to- night.”
A sudden repulsion for the evening’s engagement rose in Byrne, but the situation following his ungraciousness was delicate.
“I’ll be round,” he said. “I have a lecture and I may be late, but I’ll come.”
The “Kid” was not stupid. She moved off into the night, chin in air, angrily flushed.
“You saw!” she choked, when Stewart had overtaken her and slipped a hand through her arm. “He protects her from me! It is because of you. Before I knew you—”
“Before you knew me, little one,” he said cheerfully, “you were exactly what you are now.”
She paused on the curb and raised her voice.
“So! And what is that?”
“Beautiful as the stars, only—not so remote.”
