Peter, still not quite at ease, that evening kept out of the kitchen while supper was preparing. Anna, radical theories forgotten and wearing a knitted shawl against drafts, was making a salad, and Harmony, all anxiety and flushed with heat, was broiling a steak. Steak was an extravagance, to be cooked with clear hot coals and prayer. “Peter,” she called, “you may set the table. And try to lay the cloth straight.” Peter, exiled in the salon, came joyously. Obviously the wretched business of yesterday was forgiven. He came to the door, pipe in mouth. “Suppose I refuse?” he questioned. “You--you haven't been very friendly with me to-day, Harry.” “I?” “Don't quarrel, you children,” cried Anna, beating eggs vigorously. “Harmony is always friendly, too friendly. The Portier loves her.” “I'm sure I said good-evening to you.” “You usually say, 'Good-evening, Peter.'” “And I did not?” “You did not.” “Then--Good-evening, Peter.” “Thank you.” His steady eyes met hers. In them there was a renewal of his yesterday's promise, abasement, regret. Harmony met him with forgiveness and restoration. “Sometimes,” said Peter humbly, “when I am in very great favor, you say, 'Good-evening, Peter, dear.'” “Good-evening, Peter, dear,” said Harmony. CHAPTER XI The affairs of young Stewart and Marie Jedlicka were not moving smoothly. Having rented their apartment to the Boyers, and through Marie's frugality and the extra month's wages at Christmas, which was Marie's annual perquisite, being temporarily in funds the sky seemed clear enough, and Walter Stewart started on his holiday with a comfortable sense of financial security. Mrs. Boyer, shown over the flat by Stewart during Marie's temporary exile in the apartment across the hall, was captivated by the comfort of the little suite and by its order. Her housewifely mind, restless with long inactivity in a pension, seized on the bright pans of Marie's kitchen and the promise of the brick-and-sheetiron stove. She disapproved of Stewart, having heard strange stories of him, but there was nothing bacchanal or suspicious about this orderly establishment. Mrs. Boyer was a placid, motherly looking woman, torn from her church and her card club, her grown children, her household gods of thirty years' accumulation, that “Frank” might catch up with his profession. She had explained it rather tremulously at home. “Father wants to go,” she said. “You children are big enough now to be left. He's always wanted to do it, but we couldn't go while you were little.” “But, mother!” expostulated the oldest girl. “When you are so afraid of the ocean! And a year!” “What is to be will be,” she had replied. “If I'm going to be drowned I'll be drowned, whether it's in the sea or in a bathtub. And I'll not let father go alone.”