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Page 44

While the Portier's wife, waked, as may happen, by an
unaccustomed silence, was standing guard in the hall below, iron
candlestick in hand, Harmony, having read the Litany through in
the not particularly religious hope of getting to sleep, was
dreaming placidly. It was Peter who tossed and turned almost all
night. Truly there had been little sleep that night in the old
hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa.

Peter, still not quite at ease, that evening kept out of the
kitchen while supper was preparing. Anna, radical theories
forgotten and wearing a knitted shawl against drafts, was making
a salad, and Harmony, all anxiety and flushed with heat, was
broiling a steak.

Steak was an extravagance, to be cooked with clear hot coals and
prayer.

"Peter," she called, "you may set the table. And try to lay the
cloth straight."

Peter, exiled in the salon, came joyously. Obviously the wretched
business of yesterday was forgiven. He came to the door, pipe in
mouth.

"Suppose I refuse?" he questioned. "You--you haven't been very
friendly with me to-day, Harry."

"I?"

"Don't quarrel, you children," cried Anna, beating eggs
vigorously. "Harmony is always friendly, too friendly. The
Portier loves her."

"I'm sure I said good-evening to you."

"You usually say, 'Good-evening, Peter.'"

"And I did not?"

"You did not."

"Then--Good-evening, Peter."

"Thank you."

His steady eyes met hers. In them there was a renewal of his
yesterday's promise, abasement, regret. Harmony met him with
forgiveness and restoration.

"Sometimes," said Peter humbly, "when I am in very great favor,
you say, 'Good-evening, Peter, dear.'"

"Good-evening, Peter, dear," said Harmony.

CHAPTER XI

The affairs of young Stewart and Marie Jedlicka were not moving
smoothly. Having rented their apartment to the Boyers, and
through Marie's frugality and the extra month's wages at
Christmas, which was Marie's annual perquisite, being temporarily
in funds the sky seemed clear enough, and Walter Stewart started
on his holiday with a comfortable sense of financial security.

Mrs. Boyer, shown over the flat by Stewart during Marie's
temporary exile in the apartment across the hall, was captivated
by the comfort of the little suite and by its order. Her
housewifely mind, restless with long inactivity in a pension,
seized on the bright pans of Marie's kitchen and the promise of
the brick-and-sheetiron stove. She disapproved of Stewart, having
heard strange stories of him, but there was nothing bacchanal or
suspicious about this orderly establishment. Mrs. Boyer was a
placid, motherly looking woman, torn from her church and her card
club, her grown children, her household gods of thirty years'
accumulation, that "Frank" might catch up with his profession.

She had explained it rather tremulously at home.

"Father wants to go," she said. "You children are big enough now
to be left. He's always wanted to do it, but we couldn't go while
you were little."

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 23rd Dec 2025, 1:31

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart