The supper was spread on the table, with the pitcher
of beer in the center. There were Swiss cheese
and cold ham and rolls, and above all sausages and
mustard. Peter drank a great deal of beer, as
did the others, and sang German songs with a frightful
accent and much vigor and sentiment, as also did the
others.
Then he went back to the cold room in the Pension
Schwarz, and told himself he was a fool to live alone
when one could live like a prince for the same sum
properly laid out. He dropped into the hollow
center of his bed, where his big figure fitted as
comfortably as though it lay in a washtub, and before
his eyes there came a vision of Stewart’s flat
and the slippers by the fire—which was
eminently human.
However, a moment later he yawned, and said aloud,
with considerable vigor, that he’d be damned
if he would—which was eminently Peter Byrne.
Almost immediately, with the bed coverings, augmented
by his overcoat, drawn snug to his chin, and the better
necktie swinging from the gasjet in the air from the
opened window, Peter was asleep. For four hours
he had entirely forgotten Harmony.
The peace of a gray Sunday morning hung like a cloud
over the little Pension Schwarz. In the kitchen
the elderly maid, with a shawl over her shoulders
and stiffened fingers, made the fire, while in the
dining-room the little chambermaid cut butter and
divided it sparingly among a dozen breakfast trays—on
each tray two hard rolls, a butter pat, a plate, a
cup. On two trays Olga, with a glance over her
shoulder, placed two butter pats. The mistress
yet slept, but in the kitchen Katrina had a keen eye
for butter—and a hard heart.
Katrina came to the door.
“The hot water is ready,” she announced.
“And the coffee also. Hast thou been to
mass?”
“Ja.”
“That is a lie.” This quite on general
principle, it being one of the cook’s small
tyrannies to exact religious observance from her underling,
and one of Olga’s Sunday morning’s indulgences
to oversleep and avoid the mass. Olga took the
accusation meekly and without reply, being occupied
at that moment in standing between Katrina and the
extra pats of butter.
“For the lie,” said Katrina calmly, “thou
shalt have no butter this morning. There, the
Herr Doktor rings for water. Get it, wicked one!”
Katrina turned slowly in the doorway.
“The new Fraulein is American?”
“Ja.”
Katrina shrugged her shoulders.
“Then I shall put more water to heat,”
she said resignedly. “The Americans use
much water. God knows it cannot be healthy!”
Olga filled her pitcher from the great copper kettle
and stood with it poised in her thin young arms.
“The new Fraulein is very beautiful,”
she continued aloud. “Thinkest thou it
is the hot water?”
“Is an egg more beautiful for being boiled?”
demanded Katrina. “Go, and be less foolish.
See, it is not the Herr Doktor who rings, but the
new American.”
