“But I don’t like cheese.”
In sheer relief from the loneliness of the day her
spirits were rising.
“Then coffee! But not there. Coffee
at the coffee-house on the corner. I say—”
He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Would you—don’t you think
a cup of coffee would set you up a bit?”
“It sounds attractive,”—uncertainly.
“Coffee with whipped cream and some little cakes?”
Harmony hesitated. In the gloom of the hall she
could hardly see this brisk young American—young,
she knew by his voice, tall by his silhouette, strong
by the way he had caught her. She could not see
his face, but she liked his voice.
“Do you mean—with you?”
“I’m a doctor. I am going to fill
my own prescription.”
That sounded reassuring. Doctors were not as
other men; they were legitimate friends in need.
“I am sure it is not proper, but—”
“Proper! Of course it is. I shall
send you a bill for professional services. Besides,
won’t we be formally introduced to-night by
the landlady? Come now—to the coffee-house
and the Paris edition of the ’Herald’!”
But the next moment he paused and ran his hand over
his chin. “I’m pretty disreputable,”
he explained. “I have been in a clinic
all day, and, hang it all, I’m not shaved.”
“What difference does that make?”
“My dear young lady,” he explained gravely,
picking up the cheese and the tinned fish, “it
makes a difference in me that I wish you to realize
before you see me in a strong light.”
He rapped at the Portier’s door, with the intention
of leaving his parcels there, but receiving no reply
tucked them under his arm. A moment later Harmony
was in the open air, rather dazed, a bit excited,
and lovely with the color the adventure brought into
her face. Her companion walked beside her, tall,
slightly stooped. She essayed a fugitive little
sideglance up at him, and meeting his eyes hastily
averted hers.
They passed a policeman, and suddenly there flashed
into the girl’s mind little Scatchett’s
letter.
“Do be careful, Harry. If any one you do
not know speaks to you, call a policeman.”
The coffee-house was warm and bright. Round its
small tables were gathered miscellaneous groups, here
and there a woman, but mostly men—uniformed
officers, who made of the neighborhood coffee-house
a sort of club, where under their breath they criticized
the Government and retailed small regimental gossip;
professors from the university, still wearing under
the beards of middle life the fine horizontal scars
of student days; elderly doctors from the general
hospital across the street; even a Hofrath or two,
drinking beer and reading the “Fliegende Blaetter”
and “Simplicissimus”; and in an alcove
round a billiard table a group of noisy Korps students.
Over all a permeating odor of coffee, strong black
coffee, made with a fig or two to give it color.
It rose even above the blue tobacco haze and dominated
the atmosphere with its spicy and stimulating richness.
A bustle of waiters, a hum of conversation, the rattle
of newspapers and the click of billiard balls—this
was the coffee-house.
