This took her off guard.
"Then you do not prescribe air?"
"That's up to how you feel. If you care to go out and don't mind
my going along as a sort of Old Dog Tray I haven't anything else
to do."
Dr. Gates, eating stewed fruit across the table, gave Peter a
swift glance of admiration, which he caught and acknowledged. He
was rather exultant himself; certainly he had been adroit.
"I'd rather like a short walk. It will make me sleep," said
Harmony, who had missed the by-play. "And Old Dog Tray would be a
very nice companion, I'm sure."
It is doubtful, however, if Anna Gates would have applauded Peter
had she followed the two in their rambling walk that night.
Direction mattering little and companionship everything, they
wandered on, talking of immaterial things--of the rough
pavements, of the shop windows, of the gray medieval buildings.
They came to a full stop in front of the Votivkirche, and
discussed gravely the twin Gothic spires and the Benk sculptures
on the facade. And there in the open square, casting diplomacy to
the winds, Peter Byrne turned to Harmony and blurted out what was
in his heart.
"Look here," he said, "you don't care a rap about spires. I don't
believe you know anything about them. I don't. What did that
idiot of a woman doctor say to you to-day?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You do very well. And I'm going to set you right. She starts out
with two premises: I'm a man, and you're young and attractive.
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