The little Austrian was on the pavement when Byrne turned, unsmiling, to the other man.

“That won’t do, you know, Stewart,” he said, grave but not unfriendly.

“The Kid wouldn’t bite her.”

“We’ll not argue about it.”

After a second’s awkward pause Stewart smiled.

“Certainly not,” he agreed cheerfully.  “That is up to you, of course.  I didn’t know.  We’re looking for you to-night.”

A sudden repulsion for the evening’s engagement rose in Byrne, but the situation following his ungraciousness was delicate.

“I’ll be round,” he said.  “I have a lecture and I may be late, but I’ll come.”

The “Kid” was not stupid.  She moved off into the night, chin in air, angrily flushed.

“You saw!” she choked, when Stewart had overtaken her and slipped a hand through her arm.  “He protects her from me!  It is because of you.  Before I knew you—­”

“Before you knew me, little one,” he said cheerfully, “you were exactly what you are now.”

She paused on the curb and raised her voice.

“So!  And what is that?”

“Beautiful as the stars, only—­not so remote.”

In their curious bi-lingual talk there was little room for subtlety.  The “beautiful” calmed her, but the second part of the sentence roused her suspicion.

“Remote?  What is that?”

“I was thinking of Worthington.”

The name was a signal for war.  Stewart repented, but too late.

In the cold evening air, to the amusement of a passing detail of soldiers trundling a breadwagon by a rope, Stewart stood on the pavement and dodged verbal brickbats of Viennese idioms and German epithets.  He drew his chin into the up-turned collar of his overcoat and waited, an absurdly patient figure, until the hail of consonants had subsided into a rain of tears.  Then he took the girl’s elbow again and led her, childishly weeping, into a narrow side street beyond the prying ears and eyes of the Alserstrasse.

Byrne went back to Harmony.  The incident of Stewart and the girl was closed and he dismissed it instantly.  That situation was not his, or of his making.  But here in the coffee-house, lovely, alluring, rather puzzled at this moment, was also a situation.  For there was a situation.  He had suspected it that morning, listening to the delicatessen-seller’s narrative of Rosa’s account of the disrupted colony across in the old lodge; he had been certain of it that evening, finding Harmony in the dark entrance to his own rather sordid pension.  Now, in the bright light of the coffee-house, surmising her poverty, seeing her beauty, the emotional coming and going of her color, her frank loneliness, and God save the mark!—­her trust in him, he accepted the situation and adopted it:  his responsibility, if you please.