She did not like it.  She thought, standing before her little mirror, that she looked fast, after all.  She tried pursing her lips together, as she had seen Anna do, and blowing out the smoke in a thin line.  She smoked very hard, so that she stood in the center of a gray nimbus.  She hated it, but she persisted.  Perhaps it grew on one; perhaps, also, if she walked about it would choke her less.  She practiced holding the thing between her first and second fingers, and found that easier than smoking.  Then she went to the salon where there was more air, and tried exhaling through her nose.  It made her sneeze.

On the sneeze came Mrs. Boyer’s ring.  Harmony thought very fast.  It might be the bread or the milk, but again—­She flung the cigarette into the stove, shut the door, and answered the bell.

Mrs. Boyer’s greeting was colder than she had intended.  It put Harmony on the defensive at once, made her uncomfortable.  Like all the innocent falsely accused she looked guiltier than the guiltiest.  Under Mrs. Boyer’s searching eyes the enormity of her situation overwhelmed her.  And over all, through salon and passage, hung the damning odor of the cigarette.  Harmony, leading the way in, was a sheep before her shearer.

“I’m calling on all of you,” said Mrs. Boyer, sniping.  “I meant to bring Dr. Boyer’s cards for every one, including Dr. Byrne.”

“I’m sorry.  Dr. Byrne is out.”

“And Dr. Gates?”

“She—­she is away.”

Mrs. Boyer raised her eyebrows and ostentatiously changed the subject, requesting a needle and thread to draw the rent together.  It had been in Harmony’s mind to explain the situation, to show Jimmy to Mrs. Boyer, to throw herself on the older woman’s sympathy, to ask advice.  But the visitor’s attitude made this difficult.  To add to her discomfort, through the grating in the stove door was coming a thin thread of smoke.

It was, after all, Mrs. Boyer who broached the subject again.  She had had a cup of tea, and Harmony, sitting on a stool, had mended the rent so that it could hardly be seen.  Mrs. Boyer, softened by the tea and by the proximity of Harmony’s lovely head bent over her task, grew slightly more expansive.

“I ought to tell you something, Miss Wells,” she said.  “You remember my other visit?”

“Perfectly.”  Harmony bent still lower.

“I did you an injustice at that time.  I’ve been sorry ever since.  I thought that there was no Dr. Gates.  I’m sorry, but I’m not going to deny it.  People do things in this wicked city that they wouldn’t do at home.  I confess I misjudged Peter Byrne.  You can give him my apologies, since he won’t see me.”

“But he isn’t here or of course he’d see you.”

“Then,” demanded Mrs. Boyer grimly, “if Peter Byrne is not here, who has been smoking cigarettes in this room?  There is one still burning in that stove!”

Harmony’s hand was forced.  She was white as she cut the brown-silk thread and rose to her feet.