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Page 48

Marie glanced down at her gala toilet. Then she began slowly to
take off the dress, reaching behind her for a hook he had just
fastened and fighting back tears as she struggled with it.

"Now, remember, Marie, I will have no sulking."

"I am not sulking."

"Why should you change your clothes?"

"Because the dress was for you. If you are not here I do not wish
to wear it."

Stewart went out in a bad humor, which left him before he had
walked for five minutes in the clear mountain air. At the hotel
he found the party waiting for him, the women in evening gowns.
The girl, whose name was Anita, was bewitching in pale green.

That was a memorable night for Walter Stewart, with his own kind
once more--a perfect dinner, brisk and clever conversation,
enlivened by a bit of sweet champagne, an hour or two on the
terrace afterward with the women in furs, and stars making a
jeweled crown for the Rax.

He entirely forgot Marie until he returned to the villa and
opening the door of the room found her missing.

She had not gone far. At the sound of his steps she moved on the
balcony and came in slowly. She was pale and pinched with cold,
but she was wise with the wisdom of her kind. She smiled.

"Didst thou have a fine evening?"

"Wonderful!"

"I am sorry if I was unpleasant. I was tired, now I am rested."

"Good, little Marie!"

CHAPTER XII

The card in the American Doctors' Club brought a response
finally. It was just in time. Harmony's funds were low, and the
Frau Professor Bergmeister had gone to St. Moritz for the winter.
She regretted the English lessons, but there were always English
at St. Moritz and it cost nothing to talk with them. Before she
left she made Harmony a present. "For Christmas," she explained.
It was a glass pin-tray, decorated beneath with labels from the
Herr Professor's cigars and in the center a picture of the
Emperor.

The response came in this wise. Harmony struggling home against
an east wind and holding the pin-tray and her violin case, opened
the old garden gate by the simple expedient of leaning against
it. It flew back violently, almost overthrowing a stout woman in
process of egress down the walk. The stout woman was Mrs. Boyer,
clad as usual in the best broadcloth and wearing her old sable
cape, made over according to her oldest daughter's ideas into a
staid stole and muff. The muff lay on the path now and Mrs. Boyer
was gasping for breath.

"I'm so sorry!" Harmony exclaimed. "It was stupid of me; but the
wind--Is this your muff?"

Mrs. Boyer took the muff coldly. From its depths she proceeded to
extract a handkerchief and with the handkerchief she brushed down
the broadcloth. Harmony stood apologetically by. It is
explanatory of Mrs. Boyer's face, attitude, and costume that the
girl addressed her in English.

"I backed in," she explained. "So few people come, and no
Americans."

Mrs. Boyer, having finished her brushing and responded to this
humble apology in her own tongue, condescended to look at
Harmony.

"It really is no matter," she said, still coolly but with
indications of thawing. "I am only glad it did not strike my
nose. I dare say it would have, but I was looking up to see if it
were going to snow." Here she saw the violin case and became
almost affable.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 23rd Dec 2025, 10:05

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart