In the first place, under her plate she had found a frivolous chain and pendant which she had admired.  And when her eyes filled up, as they did whenever she was emotionally moved, the doctor had come round the table and put both his arms about her.

“Too young for you?  Not a bit!” he said heartily.  “You’re better-looking then you ever were, Jennie; and if you weren’t you’re the only woman for me, anyhow.  Don’t you think I realize what this exile means to you and that you’re doing it for me?”

“I—­I don’t mind it.”

“Yes, you do.  To-night we’ll go out and make a night of it, shall we?  Supper at the Grand, the theater, and then the Tabarin, eh?”

She loosened herself from his arms.

“What shall I wear?  Those horrible things the children bought me—­”

“Throw ’em away.”

“They’re not worn at all.”

“Throw them out.  Get rid of the things the children got you.  Go out to-morrow and buy something you like—­not that I don’t like you in anything or without—­”

“Frank!”

“Be happy, that’s the thing.  It’s the first Christmas without the family, and I miss them too.  But we’re together, dear.  That’s the big thing.  Merry Christmas.”

An auspicious opening, that, to Christmas-Day.  And they had carried out the program as outlined.  Mrs. Boyer had enjoyed it, albeit a bit horrified at the Christmas gayety at the Tabarin.

The next morning, however, she awakened with a keen reaction.  Her head ached.  She had a sense of taint over her.  She was virtue rampant again, as on the day she had first visited the old lodge in the Siebensternstrasse.

It is hardly astonishing that by association of ideas Harmony came into her mind again, a brand that might even yet be snatched from the burning.  She had been a bit hasty before, she admitted to herself.  There was a woman doctor named Gates, although her address at the club was given as Pension Schwarz.  She determined to do her shopping early and then to visit the house in the Siebensternstrasse.  She was not a hard woman, for all her inflexible morality, and more than once she had had an uneasy memory of Harmony’s bewildered, almost stricken face the afternoon of her visit.  She had been a watchful mother over a not particularly handsome family of daughters.  This lovely young girl needed mothering and she had refused it.  She would go back, and if she found she had been wrong and the girl was deserving and honest, she would see what could be done.

The day was wretched.  The snow had turned to rain.  Mrs. Boyer, shopping, dragged wet skirts and damp feet from store to store.  She found nothing that she cared for after all.  The garments that looked chic in the windows or on manikins in the shops, were absurd on her.  Her insistent bosom bulged, straight lines became curves or tortuous zigzags, plackets gaped, collars choked her or shocked her by their absence.  In the mirror of Marie Jedlicka, clad in familiar garments that had accommodated themselves to the idiosyncrasies of her figure, Mrs. Boyer was a plump, rather comely matron.  Here before the plate glass of the modiste, under the glare of a hundred lights, side by side with a slim Austrian girl who looked like a willow wand, Mrs. Boyer was grotesque, ridiculous, monstrous.  She shuddered.  She almost wept.