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Page 68

McLean, sitting across from him, watched him surreptitiously. Big
Peter, aggressively masculine, heavy of shoulder, direct of
speech and eye, was to him the embodiment of all that a woman
should desire in a man. He, too, was jealous, but humbly so.
Unlike Peter he knew his situation, was young enough to glory in
it. Shameless love is always young; with years comes discretion,
perhaps loss of confidence. The Crusaders were youths, pursuing
an idea to the ends of the earth and flaunting a lady's guerdon
from spear or saddle-bow. The older men among them tucked the
handkerchief or bit of a gauntleted glove under jerkin and armor
near the heart, and flung to the air the guerdon of some light o'
love. McLean would have shouted Harmony's name from the
housetops. Peter did not acknowledge even to himself that he was
in love with her.

It occurred to McLean after a time that Peter being in the club,
and Harmony being in all probability at home, it might be
possible to see her alone for a few minutes. He had not intended
to go back to the house in the Siebensternstrasse so soon after
being peremptorily put out; he had come to the club with the
intention of clinching his resolution with a game of cribbage.
But fate was playing into his hands. There was no cribbage player
round, and Peter himself sat across deeply immersed in a
magazine. McLean rose, not stealthily, but without unnecessary
noise.

So far so good. Peter turned a page and went on reading. McLean
sauntered to a window, hands in pockets. He even whistled a
trifle, under his breath, to prove how very casual were his
intentions. Still whistling, he moved toward the door. Peter
turned another page, which was curiously soon to have read two
columns of small type without illustrations.

Once out in the hall McLean's movements gained aim and precision.
He got his coat, hat and stick, flung the first over his arm and
the second on his head, and--

"Going out?" asked Peter calmly.

"Yes, nothing to do here. I've read all the infernal old
magazines until I'm sick of them." Indignant, too, from his
tone.

"Walking?"

"Yes."

"Mind if I go with you?"

"Not at all."

Peter, taking down his old overcoat from its hook, turned and
caught the boy's eye. It was a swift exchange of glances, but
illuminating--Peter's whimsical, but with a sort of grim
determination; McLean's sheepish, but equally determined.

"Rotten afternoon," said McLean as they started for the stairs.
"Half rain, half snow. Streets are ankle-deep."

"I'm not particularly keen about walking, but--I don't care for
this tomb alone."

Nothing was further from McLean's mind than a walk with Peter
that afternoon. He hesitated halfway down the upper flight.

"You don't care for cribbage, do you?"

"Don't know anything about it. How about pinochle?"

They had both stopped, equally determined, equally hesitating.

"Pinochle it is," acquiesced McLean. "I was only going because
there was nothing to do."

Things went very well for Peter that afternoon--up to a certain
point. He beat McLean unmercifully, playing with cold
deliberation. McLean wearied, fidgeted, railed at his luck. Peter
played on grimly.

The club filled up toward the coffee-hour. Two or three women,
wives of members, a young girl to whom McLean had been rather
attentive before he met Harmony and who bridled at the abstracted
bow he gave her. And, finally, when hope in Peter was dead, one
of the women on Anna's list.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 25th Dec 2025, 7:56

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart