“I hoped you would come, Peter.  We may have the reception room.”

“You knew I would come,” said Peter.  “The reception room?”

“Where customers wait.”  She still carried her violin, and slipped back to her room to put it away.  Peter had a glimpse of its poverty and its meagerness.  He drew a long breath.

Monia was at the opera, and the Hungarian sat in the kitchen knitting a stocking.  The reception room was warm from the day’s fire, and in order.  All the pins and scraps of the day had been swept up, and the portieres that made fitting-rooms of the corners were pushed back.  Peter saw only a big room with empty corners, and that at a glance.  His eyes were Harmony’s.

He sat down awkwardly on a stiff chair, Harmony on a velvet settee.  They were suddenly two strangers meeting for the first time.  In the squalor of the Pension Schwarz, in the comfortable intimacies of the Street of Seven Stars, they had been easy, unconstrained.  Now suddenly Peter was tongue-tied.  Only one thing in him clamored for utterance, and that he sternly silenced.

“I—­I could not stay there, Peter.  You understood?”

“No.  Of course, I understood.”

“You were not angry?”

“Why should I be angry?  You came, like an angel of light, when I needed you.  Only, of course,—­”

“Yes?”

“I’ll not say that, I think.”

“Please say it, Peter!”

Peter writhed; looked everywhere but at her.

“Please, Peter.  You said I always came when you needed me, only—­”

“Only—­I always need you!” Peter, Peter!

“Not always, I think.  Of course, when one is in trouble one needs a woman; but—­”

“Well, of course—­but—­I’m generally in trouble, Harry dear.”

Frightfully ashamed of himself by that time was Peter, ashamed of his weakness.  He sought to give a casual air to the speech by stooping for a neglected pin on the carpet.  By the time he had stuck it in his lapel he had saved his mental forces from the rout of Harmony’s eyes.

His next speech he made to the center table, and missed a most delectable look in the aforesaid eyes.

“I didn’t come to be silly,” he said to the table.  “I hate people who whine, and I’ve got into a damnable habit of being sorry for myself!  It’s to laugh, isn’t it, a great, hulking carcass like me, to be—­”

“Peter,” said Harmony softly, “aren’t you going to look at me?”

“I’m afraid.”

“That’s cowardice.  And I’ve fixed my hair a new way.  Do you like it?”

“Splendid,” said Peter to the center table.

“You didn’t look!”

The rout of Harmony’s eyes was supplemented by the rout of Harmony’s hair.  Peter, goaded, got up and walked about.  Harmony was half exasperated; she would have boxed Peter’s ears with a tender hand had she dared.

His hands thrust savagely in his pockets, Peter turned and faced her at last.