Peter took the letter and went home.  He rode, that he might read it again in the bus.  But no scrap of comfort could he get from it.  It spoke of the dead father coldly, and the father had been the boy’s idol.  No good woman could have been so heartless.  It offered the boy a seat in one of the least reputable of the Paris theaters to hear his mother sing.  And in the envelope, overlooked before, Peter found a cutting from a French newspaper, a picture of the music-hall type that made him groan.  It was indorsed “Mamma.”

Harmony had had a busy morning.  First she had put her house in order, working deftly, her pretty hair pinned up in a towel—­all in order but Peter’s room.  That was to have a special cleaning later.  Next, still with her hair tied up, she had spent two hours with her violin, standing very close to the stove to save fuel and keep her fingers warm.  She played well that morning:  even her own critical ears were satisfied, and the Portier, repairing a window lock in an empty room below, was entranced.  He sat on the window sill in the biting cold and listened.  Many music students had lived in the apartment with the great salon; there had been much music of one sort and another, but none like this.

“She tears my heart from my bosom,” muttered the Portier, sighing, and almost swallowed a screw that he held in his teeth.

After the practicing Harmony cleaned Peter’s room.  She felt very tender toward Peter that day.  The hurt left by Mrs. Boyer’s visit had died away, but there remained a clear vision of Peter standing behind the chair and offering himself humbly in marriage, so that a bad situation might be made better.  And as with a man tenderness expresses itself in the giving of gifts, so with a woman it means giving of service.  Harmony cleaned Peter’s room.

It was really rather tidy.  Peter’s few belongings did not spread to any extent and years of bachelorhood had taught him the rudiments of order.  Harmony took the covers from washstand and dressing table and washed and ironed them.  She cleaned Peter’s worn brushes and brought a pincushion of her own for his one extra scarfpin.  Finally she brought her own steamer rug and folded it across the foot of the bed.  There was no stove in the room; it had been Harmony’s room once, and she knew to the full how cold it could be.

Having made all comfortable for the outer man she prepared for the inner.  She was in the kitchen, still with her hair tied up, when Anna came home.

Anna was preoccupied.  Instead of her cheery greeting she came somberly back to the kitchen, a letter in her hand.  History was making fast that day.

“Hello, Harry,” she said.  “I’m going to take a bite and hurry off.  Don’t bother, I’ll attend to myself.”  She stuffed the letter in her belt and got a plate from a shelf.  “How pretty you look with your head tied up!  If stupid Peter saw you now he would fall in love with you.”