A very pale and dispirited Harmony it was who bathed her eyes in cold water that evening and obeyed little Olga’s “Bitte sum speisen.”  The chairs round the dining-table were only half occupied—­a free concert had taken some, Sunday excursions others.  The little Bulgarian, secretly considered to be a political spy, was never about on this one evening of the week.  Rumor had it that on these evenings, secreted in an attic room far off in the sixteenth district, he wrote and sent off reports of what he had learned during the week—­his gleanings from near-by tables in coffee-houses or from the indiscreet hours after midnight in the cafe, where the Austrian military was wont to gather and drink.

Into the empty chair beside Harmony Peter slid his long figure, and met a tremulous bow and silence.  From the head of the table Frau Schwarz was talking volubly—­as if, by mere sound, to distract attention from the scantiness of the meal.  Under cover of the Babel Peter spoke to the girl.  Having had his warning his tone was friendly, without a hint of the intimacy of the day before.

“Better?”

“Not entirely.  Somewhat.”

“I wish you had sent Olga to me for some tablets.  No one needs to suffer from headache, when five grains or so of powder will help them.”

“I am afraid of headache tablets.”

“Not when your physician prescribes them, I hope!”

This was the right note.  Harmony brightened a little.  After all, what had she to do with the man himself?  He had constituted himself her physician.  That was all.

“The next time I shall send Olga.”

“Good!” he responded heartily; and proceeded to make such a meal as he might, talking little, and nursing, by a careful indifference, her new-growing confidence.

It was when he had pushed his plate away and lighted a cigarette—­according to the custom of the pension, which accorded the “Nicht Rauchen” sign the same attention that it did to the portrait of the deceased Herr Schwarz—­that he turned to her again.

“I am sorry you are not able to walk.  It promises a nice night.”

Peter was clever.  Harmony, expecting an invitation to walk, had nerved herself to a cool refusal.  This took her off guard.

“Then you do not prescribe air?”

“That’s up to how you feel.  If you care to go out and don’t mind my going along as a sort of Old Dog Tray I haven’t anything else to do.”

Dr. Gates, eating stewed fruit across the table, gave Peter a swift glance of admiration, which he caught and acknowledged.  He was rather exultant himself; certainly he had been adroit.

“I’d rather like a short walk.  It will make me sleep,” said Harmony, who had missed the by-play.  “And Old Dog Tray would be a very nice companion, I’m sure.”