No man ever violently resents the passionate hate of one woman for her rival in his affections.  Stewart, finding the situation in hand and Marie only feebly formidable, was rather amused and flattered by the honest fury in her voice.  The mouse was under his paw; he would play a bit.  “You’ll get over feeling that way, kid.  You don’t really love me.”

“You were my God, that is all.”

“Will you let me help you—­money, I mean?”

“Keep it for her.”

“Peter will be here in a minute.”  He bent over the table and eyed her with his old, half-bullying, half-playful manner.  “Come round here and kiss me for old times.”

“No!”

“Come.”

She stood stubbornly still, and Stewart, still smiling, took a step or two toward her.  Then he stopped, ceased smiling, drew himself up.

“You are quite right and I’m a rotter.”  Marie’s English did not comprehend “rotter,” but she knew the tone.  “Listen, Marie, I’ve told the other girl, and there’s a chance for me, anyhow.  Some day she may marry me.  She asked me to see you.”

“I do not wish her pity.”

“You are wasting your life here.  You cannot marry, you say, without a dot.  There is a chance in America for a clever girl.  You are clever, little Marie.  The first money I can spare I’ll send you—­if you’ll take it.  It’s all I can do.”

This was a new Stewart, a man she had never known.  Marie recoiled from him, eyed him nervously, sought in her childish mind for an explanation.  When at last she understood that he was sincere, she broke down.  Stewart, playing a new part and raw in it, found the situation irritating.  But Marie’s tears were not entirely bitter.  Back of them her busy young mind was weaving a new warp of life, with all of America for its loom.  Hope that had died lived again.  Before her already lay that great country where women might labor and live by the fruit of their labor, where her tawdry past would be buried in the center of distant Europe.  New life beckoned to the little Marie that night in the old salon of Maria Theresa, beckoned to her as it called to Stewart, opportunity to one, love and work to the other.  To America!

“I will go,” she said at last simply.  “And I will not trouble you there.”

“Good!” Stewart held out his hand and Marie took it.  With a quick gesture she held it to her cheek, dropped it.

Peter came back half an hour later, downcast but not hopeless.  He had not found Harmony, but life was not all gray.  She was well, still in Vienna, and—­she had come back!  She had cared then enough to come back.  To-morrow he would commence again, would comb the city fine, and when he had found her he would bring her back, the wanderer, to a marvelous welcome.

He found Stewart gone, and Marie feverishly overhauling her few belongings by the salon lamp.  She turned to him a face still stained with tears but radiant with hope.