“Not ill, are you?” he asked in English, and then remembering. “Bist du krank?” He colored violently at that, recalling too late the familiarity of the “du.” Harmony smiled faintly. “Only tired,” she said in English. “And the odor of cabbage--“. Her color had come back and she freed herself from his supporting hand. He whistled softly. He had recognized her. “Cabbage, of course!” he said. “The pension upstairs is full of it. I live there, and I've eaten so much of it I could be served up with pork.” “I am going to live there. Is it as bad as that?” He waved a hand toward the parcels on the floor. “So bad,” he observed, “that I keep body and soul together by buying strong and odorous food at the delicatessens--odorous, because only rugged flavors rise above the atmosphere up there. Cheese is the only thing that really knocks out the cabbage, and once or twice even cheese has retired defeated.” “But I don't like cheese.” In sheer relief from the loneliness of the day her spirits were rising. “Then coffee! But not there. Coffee at the coffee-house on the corner. I say--” He hesitated. “Yes?” “Would you--don't you think a cup of coffee would set you up a bit?” “It sounds attractive,”--uncertainly. “Coffee with whipped cream and some little cakes?” Harmony hesitated. In the gloom of the hall she could hardly see this brisk young American--young, she knew by his voice, tall by his silhouette, strong by the way he had caught her. She could not see his face, but she liked his voice. “Do you mean--with you?” “I'm a doctor. I am going to fill my own prescription.” That sounded reassuring. Doctors were not as other men; they were legitimate friends in need. “I am sure it is not proper, but--” “Proper! Of course it is. I shall send you a bill for professional services. Besides, won't we be formally introduced to-night by the landlady? Come now--to the coffee-house and the Paris edition of the 'Herald'!” But the next moment he paused and ran his hand over his chin. “I'm pretty disreputable,” he explained. “I have been in a clinic all day, and, hang it all, I'm not shaved.” “What difference does that make?” “My dear young lady,” he explained gravely, picking up the cheese and the tinned fish, “it makes a difference in me that I wish you to realize before you see me in a strong light.” He rapped at the Portier's door, with the intention of leaving his parcels there, but receiving no reply tucked them under his arm. A moment later Harmony was in the open air, rather dazed, a bit excited, and lovely with the color the adventure brought into her face. Her companion walked beside her, tall, slightly stooped. She essayed a fugitive little side-glance up at him, and meeting his eyes hastily averted hers. They passed a policeman, and suddenly there flashed into the girl's mind little Scatchett's letter. “Do be careful, Harry. If any one you do not know speaks to you, call a policeman.” CHAPTER III