Stewart had lain back and closed his eyes.  No, it didn’t matter.  A sense of great relief overwhelmed him.  Marie was gone, frightened into hiding.  It was as if a band that had been about him was suddenly loosed:  he breathed deep, he threw out his arms and laughed from sheer reaction.  Then, catching Peter’s not particularly approving eyes, he colored.

“Good Lord, Peter!” he said, “you don’t know what I’ve gone through with that little devil.  And now she’s gone!” He glanced round the disordered room, where bandages and medicines crowded toilet articles on the dressing-table, where one of Marie’s small slippers still lay where it had fallen under the foot of the bed, where her rosary still hung over the corner of the table.  “Ring for the maid, Peter, will you!  I’ve got to get this junk out of here.  Some of Anita’s people may come.”

During that afternoon ride, while the train clump-clumped down the mountains, Peter thought of all this.  Some of Marie’s “junk” was in his bag; her rosary lay in his breastpocket, along with the pin he had sent her at Christmas.  Peter happened on it, still in its box, which looked as if it had been cried over.  He had brought it with him.  He admired it very much, and it had cost money he could ill afford to spend.

It was late when the train drew into the station.  Peter, encumbered with Marie’s luggage and his own, lowered his window and added his voice to the chorus of plaintive calls:  “Portier!  Portier!” they shouted.  “Portier!” bawled Peter.

He was obliged to resort to the extravagance of a taxicab.  Possibly a fiacre would have done as well, but it cost almost as much and was slower.  Moments counted now:  a second was an hour, an hour a decade.  For he was on his way to Harmony.  Extravagance became recklessness.  As soon die for a sheep as a lamb!  He stopped the taxicab and bought a bunch of violets, stopped again and bought lilies of the valley to combine with the violets, went out of his tray to the American grocery and bought a jar of preserved fruit.

By that time he was laden.  The jar of preserves hung in one shabby pocket, Marie’s rosary dangled from another; the violets were buttoned under his overcoat against the cold.

At the very last he held the taxi an extra moment and darted into the delicatessen shop across the Siebensternstrasse.  From there, standing inside the doorway, he could see the lights in the salon across the way, the glow of his lamp, the flicker that was the fire.  Peter whistled, stamped his cold feet, quite neglected—­in spite of repeated warnings from Harmony—­to watch the Herr Schenkenkaufer weigh the cheese, accepted without a glance a ten-Kronen piece with a hole in it.

“And how is the child to-day?” asked the Herr Schenkenkaufer, covering the defective gold piece with conversation.

“I do not know; I have been away,” said Peter.  He almost sang it.

“All is well or I would have heard.  Wilhelm the Portier was but just now here.”