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Page 72

she sang, her clear eyes luminous.

"And in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!"

Mrs. Boyer mounted the stairs. She was in a very bad humor. She
had snagged her skirt on a nail in the old gate, and although
that very morning she had detested the suit, her round of
shopping had again endeared it to her. She told the Portier in
English what she thought of him, and climbed ponderously, pausing
at each landing to examine the damage.

Harmony, having sung Jimmy to sleep, was in the throes of an
experiment. She was trying to smoke.

A very human young person was Harmony, apt to be exceedingly
wretched if her hat were of last year's fashion, anxious to be
inconspicuous by doing what every one else was doing,
conventional as are the very young, fearful of being an
exception.

And nearly every one was smoking. Many of the young women whom
she met at the master's house had yellowed fingers and smoked in
the anteroom; the Big Soprano had smoked; Anna and Scatchy had
smoked; in the coffee-houses milliners' apprentices produced
little silver mouth-pieces to prevent soiling their pretty lips
and smoked endlessly. Even Peter had admitted that it was not a
vice, but only a comfortable bad habit. And Anna had left a
handful of cigarettes.

Harmony was not smoking; she was experimenting. Peter and Anna
had smoked together and it had looked comradely. Perhaps, without
reasoning it out, Harmony was experimenting toward the end of
establishing her relations with Peter still further on friendly
and comradely grounds. Two men might smoke together; a man and a
woman might smoke together as friends. According to Harmony's
ideas, a girl paring potatoes might inspire sentiment, but
smoking a cigarette--never!

She did not like it. She thought, standing before her little
mirror, that she looked fast, after all. She tried pursing her
lips together, as she had seen Anna do, and blowing out the smoke
in a thin line. She smoked very hard, so that she stood in the
center of a gray nimbus. She hated it, but she persisted. Perhaps
it grew on one; perhaps, also, if she walked about it would choke
her less. She practiced holding the thing between her first and
second fingers, and found that easier than smoking. Then she went
to the salon where there was more air, and tried exhaling through
her nose. It made her sneeze.

On the sneeze came Mrs. Boyer's ring. Harmony thought very fast.
It might be the bread or the milk, but again--She flung the
cigarette into the stove, shut the door, and answered the bell.

Mrs. Boyer's greeting was colder than she had intended. It put
Harmony on the defensive at once, made her uncomfortable. Like
all the innocent falsely accused she looked guiltier than the
guiltiest. Under Mrs. Boyer's searching eyes the enormity of her
situation overwhelmed her. And over all, through salon and
passage, hung the damning odor of the cigarette. Harmony, leading
the way in, was a sheep before her shearer.

"I'm calling on all of you," said Mrs. Boyer, sniping. "I meant
to bring Dr. Boyer's cards for every one, including Dr. Byrne."

"I'm sorry. Dr. Byrne is out."

"And Dr. Gates?"

"She--she is away."

Mrs. Boyer raised her eyebrows and ostentatiously changed the
subject, requesting a needle and thread to draw the rent
together. It had been in Harmony's mind to explain the situation,
to show Jimmy to Mrs. Boyer, to throw herself on the older
woman's sympathy, to ask advice. But the visitor's attitude made
this difficult. To add to her discomfort, through the grating in
the stove door was coming a thin thread of smoke.

It was, after all, Mrs. Boyer who broached the subject again. She
had had a cup of tea, and Harmony, sitting on a stool, had mended
the rent so that it could hardly be seen. Mrs. Boyer, softened by
the tea and by the proximity of Harmony's lovely head bent over
her task, grew slightly more expansive.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 25th Dec 2025, 16:55

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart