“That’s an American girl, isn’t it?” he asked in American-German.

The shopkeeper was voluble.  Also Rosa had bought much from him, and Rosa talked.  When the American left the shop he knew everything of Harmony that Rosa knew except her name.  Rosa called her “The Beautiful One.”  Also he was short one krone four beliers in his change, which is readily done when a customer is plainly thinking of a “beautiful one.”

Harmony searched all day for the little room with board and a stove and no objection to practicing.  There were plenty—­but the rates!  The willow plume looked prosperous, and she had a way of making the plainest garments appear costly.  Landladies looked at the plume and the suit and heard the soft swish of silk beneath, which marks only self-respect in the American woman but is extravagance in Europe, and added to their regular terms until poor Harmony’s heart almost stood still.  And then at last toward evening she happened on a gloomy little pension near the corner of the Alserstrasse, and it being dark and the plume not showing, and the landlady missing the rustle owing to cotton in her ears for earache, Harmony found terms that she could meet for a time.

A mean little room enough, but with a stove.  The bed sagged in the center, and the toilet table had a mirror that made one eye appear higher than the other and twisted one’s nose.  But there was an odor of stewing cabbage in the air.  Also, alas, there was the odor of many previous stewed cabbages, and of dusty carpets and stale tobacco.  Harmony had had no lunch; she turned rather faint.

She arranged to come at once, and got out into the comparative purity of the staircase atmosphere and felt her way down.  She reeled once or twice.  At the bottom of the dark stairs she stood for a moment with her eyes closed, to the dismay of a young man who had just come in with a cheese and some tinned fish under his arm.

He put down his packages on the stone floor and caught her arm.

“Not ill, are you?” he asked in English, and then remembering.  “Bist du krank?” He colored violently at that, recalling too late the familiarity of the “du.”

Harmony smiled faintly.

“Only tired,” she said in English.  “And the odor of cabbage—­“.

Her color had come back and she freed herself from his supporting hand.  He whistled softly.  He had recognized her.

“Cabbage, of course!” he said.  “The pension upstairs is full of it.  I live there, and I’ve eaten so much of it I could be served up with pork.”

“I am going to live there.  Is it as bad as that?”

He waved a hand toward the parcels on the floor.

“So bad,” he observed, “that I keep body and soul together by buying strong and odorous food at the delicatessens—­odorous, because only rugged flavors rise above the atmosphere up there.  Cheese is the only thing that really knocks out the cabbage, and once or twice even cheese has retired defeated.”