“She leaves to-day,” she announced, ignoring the knot.

“Why?  She is alone.  Rosa says—­”

“She leaves to-day!”

The knot was hopeless now, double-tied and pulled to smooth compactness.  The Portier jerked at it.

“No Fraulein stays here alone.  It is not respectable.  And what saw I last night, after she entered and you stood moon-gazing up the stair after her!  A man in the gateway!”

The Portier was angry.  He snarled something through the bandage, which had slipped down over his mouth, and picked up a great knife.

“She will stay if she so desire,” he muttered furiously, and, raising the knife, he cut the knotted string.  His mustache, faintly gray and sweetly up-curled, stood revealed.

“She will stay!” he repeated.  “And when you see men at the gate, let me know.  She is an angel!”

“And she looks like the angel at the opera, hein?”

This was a crushing blow.  The Portier wilted.  Such things come from telling one’s cousin, who keeps a brushshop, what is in one’s heart.  Yesterday his wife had needed a brush, and to-day—­Himmel, the girl must go!

Harmony knew also that she must go.  The apartment was large and expensive; Rosa ate much and wasted more.  She must find somewhere a tiny room with board, a humble little room but with a stove.  It is folly to practice with stiffened fingers.  A room where her playing would not annoy people, that was important.

She paid Rosa off that morning out of money left for that purpose.  Rosa wept.  She said she would stay with the Fraulein for her keep, because it was not the custom for young ladies to be alone in the city—­young girls of the people, of course; but beautiful young ladies, no!

Harmony gave her an extra krone or two out of sheer gratitude, but she could not keep her.  And at noon, having packed her trunk, she went down to interview the Portier and his wife, who were agents under the owner for the old house.

The Portier, entirely subdued, was sweeping out the hallway.  He looked past the girl, not at her, and observed impassively that the lease was up and it was her privilege to go.  In the daylight she was not so like the angel, and after all she could only play the violin.  The angel had a voice, such a voice!  And besides, there was an eye at the crack of the door.

The bit of cheer of the night before was gone; it was with a heavy heart that Harmony started on her quest for cheaper quarters.

Winter, which had threatened for a month, had come at last.  The cobblestones glittered with ice and the small puddles in the gutters were frozen.  Across the street a spotted deer, shot in the mountains the day before and hanging from a hook before a wild-game shop, was frozen quite stiff.  It was a pretty creature.  The girl turned her eyes away.  A young man, buying cheese and tinned fish in the shop, watched after her.