“So I gather.  I’ll let you see her, of course, but don’t you want to see me first?”

“I want to take her away from here.”

“Why?  Are you better able to care for her than I am?”

McLean stood rigid.  He had thrust his clenched hands into his pockets.

“You’re a scoundrel, Byrne,” he said steadily.  “Why didn’t you tell me this this afternoon?”

“Because I knew if I did you’d do just what you are doing.”

“Are you going to keep her here?”

Peter changed color at the thrust, but he kept himself in hand.

“I’m not keeping her here,” he said patiently.  “I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.”

“Then your best is pretty bad.”

“Perhaps.  If you would try to remember the circumstances, McLean,—­that the girl has no place else to go, practically no money, and that I—­”

“I remember one circumstance, that you are living here alone with her and that you’re crazy in love with her.”

“That has nothing to do with you.  As long as I treat her—­”

“Bah!”

“Will you be good enough to let me finish what I am trying to say?  She’s safe with me.  When I say that I mean it.  She will not go away from here with you or with any one else if I can prevent it.  And if you care enough about her to try to keep her happy you’ll not let her know you have been here.  I’ve got a woman coming to take Anna’s place.  That ought to satisfy you.”

“Dr. Jennings?”

“Yes.”

“She’ll not come.  Mrs. Boyer has been talking to her.  Inside of an hour the whole club will have it—­every American in Vienna will know about it in a day or so.  I tell you, Byrne, you’re doing an awful thing.”

Peter drew a long breath.  He had had his bad half-hour before McLean came; had had to stand by, wordless, and see Harmony trying to smile, see her dragging about, languid and white, see her tragic attempts to greet him on the old familiar footing.  Through it all he had been sustained by the thought that a day or two days would see the old footing reestablished, another woman in the house, life again worth the living and Harmony smiling up frankly into his eyes.  Now this hope had departed.

“You can’t keep me from seeing her, you know,” McLean persisted.  “I’ve got to put this thing to her.  She’s got to choose.”

“What alternative have you to suggest?”

“I’d marry her if she’d have me.”

After all Peter had expected that.  And, if she cared for the boy wouldn’t that be best for her?  What had he to offer against that?  He couldn’t marry.  He could only offer her shelter, against everything else.  Even then he did not dislike McLean.  He was a man, every slender inch of him, this boy musician.  Peter’s heart sank, but he put down his pipe and turned to the door.

“I’ll call her,” he said.  “But, since this concerns me very vitally, I should like to be here while you put the thing to her.  After that if you like—­”