The little Bulgarian was frankly her slave now.  He had given up the coffee-houses that he might spend that hour near her, on the chance of seeing her or, failing that, of hearing her play.  At night in the Cafe Hungaria he sat for hours at a time, his elbows on the table, a bottle of native wine before him, and dreamed of her.  He was very fat, the little Georgiev, very swarthy, very pathetic.  The Balkan kettle was simmering in those days, and he had been set to watch the fire.  But instead he had kindled a flame of his own, and was feeding it with stray words, odd glances, a bit of music, the curve of a woman’s hair behind her ears.  For reports he wrote verses in modern Greek, and through one of those inadvertences which make tragedy, the Minister of War down in troubled Bulgaria once received between the pages of a report in cipher on the fortifications of the Danube a verse in fervid hexameter that made even that grim official smile.

Harmony was quite unconscious.  She went on her way methodically:  so many hours of work, so many lessons at fifty Kronen, so many afternoons searching for something to do, making rounds of shops where her English might be valuable.

And after a few weeks Peter Byrne found time to help.  After one experience, when Harmony left a shop with flaming face and tears in her eyes, he had thought it best to go with her.  The first interview, under Peter’s grim eyes, was a failure.  The shopkeeper was obviously suspicious of Peter.  After that, whenever he could escape from clinics, Peter went along, but stayed outside, smoking his eternal cigarette, and keeping a watchful eye on things inside the shop.

Only once was he needed.  At that time, suspecting that all was not well, from the girl’s eyes and the leer on the shopkeeper’s face, he had opened the door in time to hear enough.  He had lifted the proprietor bodily and flung him with a crash into a glass showcase of ornaments for the hair.  Then, entirely cheerful and happy, and unmolested by the frightened clerks, he led Harmony outside and in a sort of atavistic triumph bought her a bunch of valley lilies.

Nevertheless, in his sane moments, Peter knew that things were very bad, indeed.  He was still not in love with the girl.  He analyzed his own feeling very carefully, and that was his conclusion.  Nevertheless he did a quixotic thing—­which was Peter, of course, all over.

He took supper with Stewart and Marie on Friday, and the idea came to him there.  Hardly came to him, being Marie’s originally.  The little flat was cozy and bright.  Marie, having straightened her kitchen, brought in a waist she was making and sat sewing while the two men talked.  Their conversation was technical, a new extirpation of the thyroid gland, a recent nephrectomy.

In her curious way Marie liked Peter and respected him.  She struggled with the technicalities of their talk as she sewed, finding here and there a comprehensive bit.  At those times she sat, needle poised, intelligent eyes on the speakers, until she lost herself again in the mazes of their English.