“Frau Schwarz will present you to-night,” primly and rising. Peter Byrne rose, too. “I am going back with you. You should not go through that lonely yard alone after dark.” “Yard! How do you know that?” Byrne was picking up the cheese, which he had thoughtlessly set on the heater, and which proved to be in an alarming state of dissolution. It took a moment to rewrap, and incidentally furnished an inspiration. He indicated it airily. “Saw you this morning coming out--delicatessen shop across the street,” he said glibly. And then, in an outburst of honesty which the girl's eyes seemed somehow to compel: “That's true, but it's not all the truth. I was on the bus last night, and when you got off alone I--I saw you were an American, and that's not a good neighborhood. I took the liberty of following you to your gate!” He need not have been alarmed. Harmony was only grateful, and said so. And in her gratitude she made no objection to his suggestion that he see her safely to the old lodge and help her carry her hand-luggage and her violin to the pension. He paid the trifling score, and followed by many eyes in the room they went out into the crisp night together. At the lodge the doors stood wide, and a vigorous sound of scrubbing showed that the Portier's wife was preparing for the inspection of possible new tenants. She was cleaning down the stairs by the light of a candle, and the steam of the hot water on the cold marble invested her like an aura. She stood aside to let them pass, and then went cumbrously down the stairs to where, a fork in one hand and a pipe in the other, the Portier was frying chops for the evening meal. “What have I said?” she demanded from the doorway. “Your angel is here.” “So!” “She with whom you sing, old cracked voice! Whose money you refuse, because she reminds you of your opera singer! She is again here, and with a man!” “It is the way of the young and beautiful--there is always a man,” said the Portier, turning a chop. His wife wiped her steaming hands on her apron and turned away, exasperated. “It is the same man whom I last night saw at the gate,” she threw back over her shoulder. “I knew it from the first; but you, great booby, can see nothing but red lips. Bah!” Upstairs in the salon of Maria Theresa, lighted by one candle and freezing cold, in a stiff chair under the great chandelier Peter Byrne sat and waited and blew on his fingers. Down below, in the Street of Seven Stars, the arc lights swung in the wind. CHAPTER IV