The pigeons, cooing on the window-sill, wakened her early.  She was confused at first, got up to see if Jimmy had thrown off his blankets, and wakened to full consciousness with the sickening realization that Jimmy was not there.

The dressmaker, whose name was Monia Reiff, slept late after her evening out.  Harmony, collapsing with hunger and faintness, waited as long as she could.  Then she put on her things desperately and ventured out.  Surely at this hour Peter would not be searching, and even if he were he would never think of the sixteenth district.  He would make inquiries, of course—­the Pension Schwarz, Boyers’, the master’s.

The breakfast brought back her strength and the morning air gave her confidence.  The district, too, was less formidable than the neighborhood of the Karntnerstrasse and the Graben.  The shops were smaller.  The windows exhibited cheaper goods.  There was a sort of family atmosphere about many of them; the head of the establishment in the doorway, the wife at the cashier’s desk, daughters, cousins, nieces behind the wooden counters.  The shopkeepers were approachable, instead of familiar.  Harmony met no rebuffs, was respectfully greeted and cheerfully listened to.  In many cases the application ended in a general consultation, shopkeeper, wife, daughters, nieces, slim clerks with tiny mustaches.  She got addresses, followed them up, more consultations, more addresses, but no work.  The reason dawned on her after a day of tramping, during which she kept carefully away from that part of the city where Peter might be searching for her.

The fact was, of course, that her knowledge of English was her sole asset as a clerk.  And there were few English and no tourists in the sixteenth district.  She was marketing a commodity for which there was no demand.

She lunched at a Konditorei, more to rest her tired body than because she needed food.  The afternoon was as the morning.  At six o’clock, long after the midwinter darkness had fallen, she stumbled back to the Wollbadgasse and up the whitewashed staircase.

She had a shock at the second landing.  A man had stepped into the angle to let her pass.  A gasjet dared over his head, and she recognized the short heavy figure and ardent eyes of Georgiev.  She had her veil down luckily, and he gave no sign of recognition.  She passed on, and she heard him a second later descending.  But there had been something reminiscent after all in her figure and carriage.  The little Georgiev paused, halfway down, and thought a moment.  It was impossible, of course.  All women reminded him of the American.  Had he not, only the day before, followed for two city blocks a woman old enough to be his mother, merely because she carried a violin case?  But there was something about the girl he had just passed—­Bah!

A bad week for Harmony followed, a week of weary days and restless nights when she slept only to dream of Peter—­of his hurt and incredulous eyes when he found she had gone; of Jimmy—­that he needed her, was worse, was dying.  More than once she heard him sobbing and wakened to the cooing of the pigeons on the window-sill.  She grew thin and sunken-eyed; took to dividing her small hoard, half of it with her, half under the carpet, so that in case of accident all would not be gone.