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Page 52

Not that Mrs. Boyer troubled herself about such things. She was
exceedingly orthodox, even in the matter of a hereafter, where
the most orthodox are apt to stretch a point, finding no
attraction whatever in the thing they are asked to believe. Mrs.
Boyer, who would have regarded it as heterodox to substitute any
other instrument for the harp of her expectation, tied on her
gingham apron before Marie Jedlicka's mirror, and thought of
Harmony and of the girls at home.

She told her husband over the supper-table and found him less
shocked than she had expected.

"It's not your affair or mine," he said. "It's Byrne's business."

"Think of the girl!"

"Even if you are right it's rather late, isn't it?"

"You could tell him what you think of him."

Dr. Boyer sighed over a cup of very excellent coffee. Much living
with a representative male had never taught his wife the reserves
among members of the sex masculine.

"I might, but I don't intend to," he said. "And if you listen to
me you'll keep the thing to yourself."

"I'll take precious good care that the girl gets no pupils,"
snapped Mrs. Boyer. And she did with great thoroughness.

We trace a life by its scars. Destiny, marching on by a thousand
painful steps, had left its usual mark, a footprint on a naked
soul. The soul was Harmony's; the foot--was it not encased at
that moment in Mrs. Boyer's comfortable house shoes?

Anna was very late that night. Peter, having put Mrs. Boyer on
her car, went back quickly. He had come out without his overcoat,
and with the sunset a bitter wind had risen, but he was too
indignant to be cold. He ran up the staircase, hearing on all
sides the creaking and banging with which the old house resented
a gale, and burst into the salon of Maria Theresa.

Harmony was sitting sidewise in a chair by the tea-table with her
face hidden against its worn red velvet. She did not look up when
he entered. Peter went over and put a hand on her shoulder. She
quivered under it and he took it away.

"Crying?"

"A little," very smothered. "Just dis-disappointment. Don't mind
me, Peter."

"You mean about the pupil?"

Harmony sat up and looked at him. She still wore her hat, now
more than ever askew, and some of the dye from the velvet had
stained her cheek. She looked rather hectic, very lovely.

"Why did she change so when she saw you?"

Peter hesitated. Afterward he thought of a dozen things he might
have said, safe things. Not one came to him.

"She--she is an evil-thinking old woman, Harry," he said gravely.

"She did not approve of the way we are living here, is that it?"

"Yes."

"But Anna?"

"She did not believe there was an Anna. Not that it matters," he
added hastily. "I'll make Anna go to her and explain. It's her
infernal jumping to a conclusion that makes me crazy."

"She will talk, Peter. I am frightened."

"I'll take Anna to-night and we'll go to Boyer's. I'll make that
woman get down on her knees to you. I'll--"

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 23rd Dec 2025, 18:56

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart