He had found the letter on his dressing-table, and he found himself confronting his image over it, a tall, stooping figure, a tired, lined face, a coat that bore the impress of many days with a sick child’s head against its breast.

So it was over.  She had come back and gone again, and this time he must let her go.  Who was he to detain her?  She would carry herself on to success, he felt; she had youth, hope, beauty and ability.  And she had proved the thing he had not dared to believe, that she could take care of herself in the old city.  Only—­to go away and leave her there!

McLean would remain.  No doubt he already had Harmony’s address in the Wollbadgasse.  Peter was not subtle, no psychologist, but he had seen during the last few days how the boy watched Harmony’s every word, every gesture.  And, perhaps, when loneliness and hard work began to tell on her, McLean’s devotion would win its reward.  McLean’s devotion, with all that it meant, the lessons again, community of taste, their common youth!  Peter felt old, very tired.

Nevertheless he went that night to the Wollbadgasse.  He sent his gray suit to the Portier’s wife to be pressed, and getting out his surgical case, as he had once before in the Pension Schwarz, he sewed a button on his overcoat, using the curved needle and the catgut and working with surgeon’s precision.  Then, still working very carefully, he trimmed the edges of graying hair over his ears, trimmed his cuffs, trimmed his best silk tie, now almost hopeless.  He blacked his shoes, and the suit not coming, he donned his dressing-gown and went into Jimmy’s room to feed the mice.  Peter stood a moment beside the smooth white bed with his face working.  The wooden sentry still stood on the bedside table.

It was in Peter’s mind to take the mice to Harmony, confess his defeat and approaching retreat, and ask her to care for them.  Then he decided against this palpable appeal for sympathy, elected to go empty-handed and discover merely how comfortable she was or was not.  When the time came he would slip out of her life, sending her a letter and leaving McLean on guard.

Harmony was at home.  Peter climbed the dark staircase—­where Harmony had met the little Georgiev, and where he had gone down to his death—­climbed steadily, but without his usual elasticity.  The place appalled him—­its gloom, its dinginess, its somber quiet.  In the daylight, with the pigeons on the sills and the morning sunlight printing the cross of the church steeple on the whitewashed wall, it was peaceful, cloisterlike, with landings that were crypts.  But at night it was almost terrifying, that staircase.

Harmony was playing.  Peter heard her when he reached the upper landing, playing a sad little strain that gripped his heart.  He waited outside before ringing, heard her begin something determinedly cheerful, falter, cease altogether.  Peter rang.

Harmony herself admitted him.  Perhaps—­oh, certainly she had expected him!  It would be Peter, of course, to come and see how she was getting on, how she was housed.  She held out her hand and Peter took it.  Still no words, only a half smile from her and no smile at all from Peter, but his heart in his eyes.