“Always with open windows.” Harmony having secured the inner casement, was wrapping herself in the blue silk kimono with the faded butterflies. Merely to look at it made Olga shiver afresh. She shook her head. “But the air of the night,” she said, “it is full of mists and illnesses! Will you have breakfast now?” “In ten minutes, after I have bathed.” Olga having put a match to the stove went back to the kitchen, shaking her head. “They are strange, 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.