To his resentment was added a contempt of himself.
"Thanks," he said. "I think not."
"Oh, all right." Stewart was rather offended. "I can't do more
than give you a chance."
They separated shortly after and Byrne went on alone. The snow of
Sunday had turned to a fine rain which had lasted all of Monday
and Tuesday. The sidewalks were slimy; wagons slid in the ooze of
the streets; and the smoke from the little stoves in the
street-cars followed them in depressing horizontal clouds. Cabmen
sat and smoked in the interior of musty cabs. The women
hod-carriers on a new building steamed like horses as they
worked.
Byrne walked along, his head thrust down into his up-turned
collar; moisture gathered on his face like dew, condensed rather
than precipitated. And as he walked there came before him a
vision of the little flat on the Hochgasse, with the lamp on the
table, and the general air of warmth and cheer, and a figure
presiding over the brick stove in the kitchen. Byrne shook
himself like a great dog and turned in at the gate of the
hospital. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself.
That week was full of disappointments for Harmony. Wherever she
turned she faced a wall of indifference or, what was worse, an
interest that frightened her. Like a bird in a cage she beat
helplessly against barriers of language, of strange customs, of
stolidity that were not far from absolute cruelty.
She held to her determination, however, at first with hope, then,
as the pension in advance and the lessons at fifty Kronen--also
in advance,--went on, recklessly.
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