So it was with something of excitement that Harmony led the way up the stairs and into the salon of Maria Theresa.

Peter was there.  He was sitting with his back to the door, busily engaged in polishing the horns of the deer.  Whatever scruples Harmony had had about the horns, Peter had none whatever, save to get them safely out of the place and to the hospital.  So Peter was polishing the horns.  Harmony had not expected to find him home, and paused, rather startled.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were home.”

Peter spoke without turning.

“Try to bear up under it,” he said.  “I’m home and hungry, sweetheart!”

“Peter, please!”

Peter turned at that and rose instantly.  It was rather dark in the salon and he did not immediately recognize Mrs. Boyer.  But that keen-eyed lady had known him before he turned, had taken in the domesticity of the scene and Peter’s part in it, and had drawn the swift conclusion of the pure of heart.

“I’ll come again,” she said hurriedly.  “I—­I must really get home.  Dr. Boyer will be there, and wondering—­”

“Mrs. Boyer!” Peter knew her.

“Oh, Dr. Byrne, isn’t it?  How unexpected to find you here!”

“I live here.”

“So I surmised.”

“Three of us,” said Peter.  “You know Anna Gates, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid not.  Really I—­”

Peter was determined to explain.  His very eagerness was almost damning.

“She and Miss Wells are keeping house here and have kindly taken me in as a boarder.  Please sit down.”

Harmony found nothing strange in the situation and was frankly puzzled at Peter.  The fact that there was anything unusual in two single women and one unmarried man, unrelated and comparative strangers, setting up housekeeping together had never occurred to her.  Many a single woman whom she knew at home took a gentleman into the house as a roomer, and thereafter referred to him as “he” and spent hours airing the curtains of smoke and even, as “he” became a member of the family, in sewing on his buttons.  There was nothing indecorous about such an arrangement; merely a concession to economic pressure.

She made tea, taking off her jacket and gloves to do it, but bustling about cheerfully, with her hat rather awry and her cheeks flushed with excitement and hope.  Just now, when the Frau Professor had gone, the prospect of a music pupil meant everything.  An American child, too!  Fond as Harmony was of children, the sedate and dignified youngsters who walked the parks daily with a governess, or sat with folded hands and fixed eyes through hours of heavy music at the opera, rather daunted her.  They were never alone, those Austrian children—­always under surveillance, always restrained, always prepared to kiss the hand of whatever relative might be near and to take themselves of to anywhere so it were somewhere else.

“I am so glad you are going to talk to me about an American child,” said Harmony, bringing in the tea.