The resulting illumination revealed a number of things:  It showed that the girl was young and comely and that she had been crying; it revealed the fact that the coal-pail was empty and the stove almost so; it let the initiated into the secret that the blackish fluid in the cups had been made with coffee extract that had been made of Heaven knows what; and it revealed in the cavernous corner near the door a number of trunks.  The girl, having lighted all the candles, stood on the chair and looked at the trunks.  She was very young, very tragic, very feminine.  A door slammed down the hall and she stopped crying instantly.  Diving into one of those receptacles that are a part of the mystery of the sex, she rubbed a chamois skin over her nose and her reddened eyelids.

The situation was a difficult one, but hardly, except to Harmony Wells, a tragedy.  Few of us are so constructed that the Suite “Arlesienne” will serve as a luncheon, or a faulty fingering of the Waldweben from “Siegfried” will keep us awake at night.  Harmony had lain awake more than once over some crime against her namesake, had paid penances of early rising and two hours of scales before breakfast, working with stiffened fingers in her cold little room where there was no room for a stove, and sitting on the edge of the bed in a faded kimono where once pink butterflies sported in a once blue-silk garden.  Then coffee, rolls, and honey, and back again to work, with little Scatchett at the piano in the salon beyond the partition, wearing a sweater and fingerless gloves and holding a hot-water bottle on her knees.  Three rooms beyond, down the stone hall, the Big Soprano, doing Madama Butterfly in bad German, helped to make an encircling wall of sound in the center of which one might practice peacefully.

Only the Portier objected.  Morning after morning, crawling out at dawn from under his featherbed in the lodge below, he opened his door and listened to Harmony doing penance above; and morning after morning he shook his fist up the stone staircase.

“Gott im Himmel!” he would say to his wife, fumbling with the knot of his mustache bandage, “what a people, these Americans!  So much noise and no music!”

“And mad!” grumbled his wife.  “All the day coal, coal to heat; and at night the windows open!  Karl the milkboy has seen it.”

And now the little colony was breaking up.  The Big Soprano was going back to her church, grand opera having found no place for her.  Scatch was returning to be married, her heart full, indeed, of music, but her head much occupied with the trousseau in her trunks.  The Harmar sisters had gone two weeks before, their funds having given out.  Indeed, funds were very low with all of them.  The “Bitte zum speisen” of the little German maid often called them to nothing more opulent than a stew of beef and carrots.