At ten o’clock she rose and put away her sewing.  Peter saw her get the stone pitcher and knew she was on her way for the evening beer.  He took advantage of her absence to broach the matter of Harmony.

“She’s up against it, as a matter of fact,” he finished.  “It ought to be easy enough for her to find something, but it isn’t.”

“I hardly saw her that day in the coffee-house; but she’s rather handsome, isn’t she?”

“That’s one of the difficulties.  Yes.”

Stewart smoked and reflected.  “No friends here at all?”

“None.  There were three girls at first.  Two have gone home.”

“Could she teach violin?”

“I should think so.”

“Aren’t there any kids in the American colony who want lessons?  There’s usually some sort of infant prodigy ready to play at any entertainments of the Doctors’ Club.”

“They don’t want an American teacher, I fancy; but I suppose I could put a card up in the club rooms.  Damn it all!” cried Peter with a burst of honest resentment, “why do I have to be poor?”

“If you were rolling in gold you could hardly offer her money, could you?”

Peter had not thought of that before.  It was the only comfort he found in his poverty.  Marie had brought in the beer and was carefully filling the mugs.  “Why do you not marry her?” she asked unexpectedly.  “Then you could take this flat.  We are going to Semmering for the winter sports.  I would show her about the stove.”

“Marry her, of course!” said Peter gravely.  “Just pick her up and carry her to church!  The trifling fact that she does not wish to marry me need have nothing to do with it.”

“Ah, but does she not wish it?” demanded Marie.  “Are you so certain, stupid big one?  Do not women always love you?”

Ridiculous as the thought was, Peter pondered it as he went back to the Pension Schwarz.  About himself he was absurdly modest, almost humble.  It had never occurred to him that women might care for him for himself.  In his struggling life there had been little time for women.  But about himself as the solution of a problem—­that was different.

He argued the thing over.  In the unlikely contingency of the girl’s being willing, was Stewart right—­could two people live as cheaply as one?  Marie was an Austrian and knew how to manage—­that was different.  And another thing troubled him.  He dreaded to disturb the delicate adjustment of their relationship; the terra incognita of a young girl’s mind daunted him.  There was another consideration which he put resolutely in the back of his mind—­his career.  He had seen many a promising one killed by early marriage, men driven to the hack work of the profession by the scourge of financial necessity.  But that was a matter of the future; the necessity was immediate.

The night was very cold.  Gusts of wind from the snow-covered Schneeberg drove along the streets, making each corner a fortress defended by the elements, a battlement to be seized, lost, seized again.  Peter Byrne battled valiantly but mechanically.  And as he fought he made his decision.