He took supper with Stewart and Marie on Friday, and the idea came to him there. Hardly came to him, being Marie's originally. The little flat was cozy and bright. Marie, having straightened her kitchen, brought in a waist she was making and sat sewing while the two men talked. Their conversation was technical, a new extirpation of the thyroid gland, a recent nephrectomy. In her curious way Marie liked Peter and respected him. She struggled with the technicalities of their talk as she sewed, finding here and there a comprehensive bit. At those times she sat, needle poised, intelligent eyes on the speakers, until she lost herself again in the mazes of their English. At ten o'clock she rose and put away her sewing. Peter saw her get the stone pitcher and knew she was on her way for the evening beer. He took advantage of her absence to broach the matter of Harmony. “She's up against it, as a matter of fact,” he finished. “It ought to be easy enough for her to find something, but it isn't.” “I hardly saw her that day in the coffee-house; but she's rather handsome, isn't she?” “That's one of the difficulties. Yes.” Stewart smoked and reflected. “No friends here at all?” “None. There were three girls at first. Two have gone home.” “Could she teach violin?” “I should think so.” “Aren't there any kids in the American colony who want lessons? There's usually some sort of infant prodigy ready to play at any entertainments of the Doctors' Club.” “They don't want an American teacher, I fancy; but I suppose I could put a card up in the club rooms. Damn it all!” cried Peter with a burst of honest resentment, “why do I have to be poor?” “If you were rolling in gold you could hardly offer her money, could you?” Peter had not thought of that before. It was the only comfort he found in his poverty. Marie had brought in the beer and was carefully filling the mugs. “Why do you not marry her?” she asked unexpectedly. “Then you could take this flat. We are going to Semmering for the winter sports. I would show her about the stove.” “Marry her, of course!” said Peter gravely. “Just pick her up and carry her to church! The trifling fact that she does not wish to marry me need have nothing to do with it.” “Ah, but does she not wish it?” demanded Marie. “Are you so certain, stupid big one? Do not women always love you?” Ridiculous as the thought was, Peter pondered it as he went back to the Pension Schwarz. About himself he was absurdly modest, almost humble. It had never occurred to him that women might care for him for himself. In his struggling life there had been little time for women. But about himself as the solution of a problem--that was different.