books.jibble.org

Page 20

Katrina came to the door.

"The hot water is ready," she announced. "And the coffee also.
Hast thou been to mass?"

"Ja."

"That is a lie." This quite on general principle, it being one of
the cook's small tyrannies to exact religious observance from her
underling, and one of Olga's Sunday morning's indulgences to
oversleep and avoid the mass. Olga took the accusation meekly and
without reply, being occupied at that moment in standing between
Katrina and the extra pats of butter.

"For the lie," said Katrina calmly, "thou shalt have no butter
this morning. There, the Herr Doktor rings for water. Get it,
wicked one!"

Katrina turned slowly in the doorway.

"The new Fraulein is American?"

"Ja."

Katrina shrugged her shoulders.

"Then I shall put more water to heat," she said resignedly. "The
Americans use much water. God knows it cannot be healthy!"

Olga filled her pitcher from the great copper kettle and stood
with it poised in her thin young arms.

"The new Fraulein is very beautiful," she continued aloud.
"Thinkest thou it is the hot water?"

"Is an egg more beautiful for being boiled?" demanded Katrina.
"Go, and be less foolish. See, it is not the Herr Doktor who
rings, but the new American."

Olga carried her pitcher to Harmony's door, and being bidden,
entered. The room was frigid and Harmony, at the window in her
nightgown, was closing the outer casement. The inner still swung
open. Olga, having put down her pitcher, shivered.

"Surely the Fraulein has not slept with open windows?"

"Always with open windows." Harmony having secured the inner
casement, was wrapping herself in the blue silk kimono with the
faded butterflies. Merely to look at it made Olga shiver afresh.
She shook her head.

"But the air of the night," she said, "it is full of mists and
illnesses! Will you have breakfast now?"

"In ten minutes, after I have bathed."

Olga having put a match to the stove went back to the kitchen,
shaking her head.

"They are strange, the Americans!" she said to latrine. "And if
to be lovely one must bathe daily, and sleep with open windows--"

Harmony had slept soundly after all. Her pique at Byrne had
passed with the reading of his note, and the sensation of his
protection and nearness had been almost physical. In the virginal
little apartment in the lodge of Maria Theresa the only masculine
presence had been that of the Portier, carrying up coals at
ninety Hellers a bucket, or of the accompanist who each alternate
day had played for the Big Soprano to practice. And they had felt
no deprivation, except for those occasional times when Scatchy
developed a reckless wish to see the interior of a dancing-hall
or one of the little theaters that opened after the opera.

But, as calmly as though she had never argued alone with a cabman
or disputed the bill at the delicatessen shop, Harmony had thrown
herself on the protection of this shabby big American whom she
had met but once, and, having done so, slept like a baby. Not, of
course, that she realized her dependence. She had felt very old
and experienced and exceedingly courageous as she put out her
light the night before and took a flying leap into the bed. She
was still old and experienced, if a trifle less courageous, that
Sunday morning.

Previous Page | Next Page

Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sun 21st Dec 2025, 0:49

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart