“It has been splendid, hasn’t it?
Since little Scatchy left there has been no one for
the piano. I have been lonely sometimes for some
one to talk music to.”
Lonely! Poor Peter!
“Then you will let me come back?”
“Will I, indeed! I—I’ll
be grateful.”
“How soon would be proper? I dare say to-morrow
you’ll be busy—Christmas and all
that.”
“Do you mean you would like to come to-morrow?”
“If old Peter wouldn’t be fussed.
He might think—”
“Peter always wants every one to be happy.
So if you really care—”
“And I’ll not bore you?”
“Rather not!”
“How—about what time?”
“In the afternoon would be pleasant, I think.
And then Jimmy can listen. He loves music.”
McLean, having found his fur-lined coat, got into
it as slowly as possible. Then he missed a glove,
and it must be searched for in all the dark corners
of the salon until found in his pocket. Even
then he hesitated, lingered, loath to break up this
little world of two.
“You play wonderfully,” he said.
“So do you.”
“If only something comes of it! It’s
curious, isn’t it, when you think of it?
You and I meeting here in the center of Europe and
both of us working our heads off for something that
may never pan out.”
There was something reminiscent about that to Harmony.
It was not until after young McLean had gone that
she recalled. It was almost word for word what
Peter had said to her in the coffee-house the night
they met. She thought it very curious, the coincidence,
and pondered it, being ignorant of the fact that it
is always a matter for wonder when the man meets the
woman, no matter where. Nothing is less curious,
more inevitable, more amazing. “You and
I,” forsooth, said Peter!
“You and I,” cried young McLean!
Quite suddenly Peter’s house, built on the sand,
collapsed. The shock came on Christmas-Day, after
young McLean, now frankly infatuated, had been driven
home by Peter.
Peter did it after his own fashion. Harmony,
with unflagging enthusiasm, was looking tired.
Suggestions to this effect rolled off McLean’s
back like rain off a roof. Finally Peter gathered
up the fur-lined coat, the velours hat, gloves, and
stick, and placed them on the piano in front of the
younger man.
“I’m sorry you must go,” said Peter
calmly, “but, as you say, Miss Wells is tired
and there is supper to be eaten. Don’t let
me hurry you.”
The Portier was at the door as McLean, laughing and
protesting, went out. He brought a cablegram
for Anna. Peter took it to her door and waited
uneasily while she read it.
It was an urgent summons home; the old father was
very low. He was calling for her, and a few days
or week’ would see the end. There were
things that must be looked after. The need of
her was imperative. With the death the old man’s
pension would cease and Anna was the bread-winner.
