For an hour, perhaps, she practiced.  The little Bulgarian paused outside her door and listened, rapt, his eyes closed.  Peter Byrne, listening while he sorted lecture memoranda at his little table in bathrobe and slippers, absently filed the little note with the others—­where he came across it months later—­next to a lecture on McBurney’s Point, and spent a sad hour or so over it.  Over all the sordid little pension, with its odors of food and stale air, its spotted napery and dusty artificial flowers, the music hovered, and made for the time all things lovely.

In her room across from Harmony’s, Anna Gates was sewing, or preparing to sew.  Her hair in a knob, her sleeves rolled up, the room in violent disorder, she was bending over the bed, cutting savagely at a roll of pink flannel.  Because she was working with curved surgeon’s scissors, borrowed from Peter, the cut edges were strangely scalloped.  Her method as well as her tools was unique.  Clearly she was intent on a body garment, for now and then she picked up the flannel and held it to her.  Having thus, as one may say, got the line of the thing, she proceeded to cut again, jaw tight set, small veins on her forehead swelling, a small replica of Peter Byrne sewing a button on his coat.

After a time it became clear to her that her method was wrong.  She rolled up the flannel viciously and flung it into a corner, and proceeded to her Sunday morning occupation of putting away the garments she had worn during the week, a vast and motley collection.

On the irritability of her mood Harmony’s music had a late but certain effect.  She made a toilet, a trifle less casual than usual, seeing that she put on her stays, and rather sheepishly picked up the bundle from the corner.  She hunted about for a thimble, being certain she had brought one from home a year before, but failed to find it.  And finally, bundle under her arm and smiling, she knocked at Harmony’s door.

“Would you mind letting me sit with you?” she asked.  “I’ll not stir.  I want to sew, and my room is such a mess!”

Harmony threw the door wide.  “You will make me very happy, if only my practicing does not disturb you.”

Dr. Gates came in and closed the door.

“I’ll probably be the disturbing element,” she said.  “I’m a noisy sewer.”

Harmony’s immaculate room and radiant person put her in good humor immediately.  She borrowed a thimble—­not because she cared whether she had one or not, but because she knew a thimble was a part of the game—­and settled herself in a corner, her ragged pieces in her lap.  For an hour she plodded along and Harmony played.  Then the girl put down her bow and turned to the corner.  The little doctor was jerking at a knot in her thread.

“It’s in the most damnable knot!” she said, and Harmony was suddenly aware that she was crying, and heartily ashamed of it.

“Please don’t pay any attention to me,” she implored.  “I hate to sew.  That’s the trouble.  Or perhaps it’s not all the trouble.  I’m a fool about music.”