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Page 14

And this, mind you, before Peter Byrne had heard Harmony's story
or knew her name, Rosa having called her "The Beautiful One" in
her narrative, and the delicatessen-seller being literal in his
repetition.

Back to "The Beautiful One" went Peter Byrne, and, true to his
new part of protector and guardian, squared his shoulders and
tried to look much older than he really was, and responsible. The
result was a grimness that alarmed Harmony back to the forgotten
proprieties.

"I think I must go," she said hurriedly, after a glance at his
determinedly altruistic profile. "I must finish packing my
things. The Portier has promised--"

"Go! Why, you haven't even told me your name!"

"Frau Schwarz will present you to-night," primly and rising.

Peter Byrne rose, too.

"I am going back with you. You should not go through that lonely
yard alone after dark."

"Yard! How do you know that?"

Byrne was picking up the cheese, which he had thoughtlessly set
on the heater, and which proved to be in an alarming state of
dissolution. It took a moment to rewrap, and incidentally
furnished an inspiration. He indicated it airily.

"Saw you this morning coming out--delicatessen shop across the
street," he said glibly. And then, in an outburst of honesty
which the girl's eyes seemed somehow to compel: "That's true, but
it's not all the truth. I was on the bus last night, and when you
got off alone I--I saw you were an American, and that's not a
good neighborhood. I took the liberty of following you to your
gate!"

He need not have been alarmed. Harmony was only grateful, and
said so. And in her gratitude she made no objection to his
suggestion that he see her safely to the old lodge and help her
carry her hand-luggage and her violin to the pension. He paid the
trifling score, and followed by many eyes in the room they went
out into the crisp night together.

At the lodge the doors stood wide, and a vigorous sound of
scrubbing showed that the Portier's wife was preparing for the
inspection of possible new tenants. She was cleaning down the
stairs by the light of a candle, and the steam of the hot water
on the cold marble invested her like an aura. She stood aside to
let them pass, and then went cumbrously down the stairs to where,
a fork in one hand and a pipe in the other, the Portier was
frying chops for the evening meal.

"What have I said?" she demanded from the doorway. "Your angel is
here."

"So!"

"She with whom you sing, old cracked voice! Whose money you
refuse, because she reminds you of your opera singer! She is
again here, and with a man!"

"It is the way of the young and beautiful--there is always a
man," said the Portier, turning a chop.

His wife wiped her steaming hands on her apron and turned away,
exasperated.

"It is the same man whom I last night saw at the gate," she threw
back over her shoulder. "I knew it from the first; but you, great
booby, can see nothing but red lips. Bah!"

Upstairs in the salon of Maria Theresa, lighted by one candle and
freezing cold, in a stiff chair under the great chandelier Peter
Byrne sat and waited and blew on his fingers. Down below, in the
Street of Seven Stars, the arc lights swung in the wind.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 18th Dec 2025, 2:25

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart