McLean, sitting across from him, watched him surreptitiously.  Big Peter, aggressively masculine, heavy of shoulder, direct of speech and eye, was to him the embodiment of all that a woman should desire in a man.  He, too, was jealous, but humbly so.  Unlike Peter he knew his situation, was young enough to glory in it.  Shameless love is always young; with years comes discretion, perhaps loss of confidence.  The Crusaders were youths, pursuing an idea to the ends of the earth and flaunting a lady’s guerdon from spear or saddle-bow.  The older men among them tucked the handkerchief or bit of a gauntleted glove under jerkin and armor near the heart, and flung to the air the guerdon of some light o’ love.  McLean would have shouted Harmony’s name from the housetops.  Peter did not acknowledge even to himself that he was in love with her.

It occurred to McLean after a time that Peter being in the club, and Harmony being in all probability at home, it might be possible to see her alone for a few minutes.  He had not intended to go back to the house in the Siebensternstrasse so soon after being peremptorily put out; he had come to the club with the intention of clinching his resolution with a game of cribbage.  But fate was playing into his hands.  There was no cribbage player round, and Peter himself sat across deeply immersed in a magazine.  McLean rose, not stealthily, but without unnecessary noise.

So far so good.  Peter turned a page and went on reading.  McLean sauntered to a window, hands in pockets.  He even whistled a trifle, under his breath, to prove how very casual were his intentions.  Still whistling, he moved toward the door.  Peter turned another page, which was curiously soon to have read two columns of small type without illustrations.

Once out in the hall McLean’s movements gained aim and precision.  He got his coat, hat and stick, flung the first over his arm and the second on his head, and—­

“Going out?” asked Peter calmly.

“Yes, nothing to do here.  I’ve read all the infernal old magazines until I’m sick of them.”  Indignant, too, from his tone.

“Walking?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I go with you?”

“Not at all.”

Peter, taking down his old overcoat from its hook, turned and caught the boy’s eye.  It was a swift exchange of glances, but illuminating—­Peter’s whimsical, but with a sort of grim determination; McLean’s sheepish, but equally determined.

“Rotten afternoon,” said McLean as they started for the stairs.  “Half rain, half snow.  Streets are ankle-deep.”

“I’m not particularly keen about walking, but—­I don’t care for this tomb alone.”

Nothing was further from McLean’s mind than a walk with Peter that afternoon.  He hesitated halfway down the upper flight.

“You don’t care for cribbage, do you?”

“Don’t know anything about it.  How about pinochle?”

They had both stopped, equally determined, equally hesitating.