To Harmony this elderly woman, climbing slowly behind
her, was a bit of home. There had been many such in her life;
women no longer young, friends of her mother's who were friends
of hers; women to whom she had been wont to pay the courtesy of a
potted hyacinth at Easter or a wreath at Christmas or a bit of
custard during an illness. She had missed them all cruelly, as
she had missed many things--her mother, her church, her small
gayeties. She had thought at first that Frau Professor
Bergmeister might allay her longing for these comfortable,
middle-aged, placid-eyed friends of hers. But the Frau Professor
Bergmeister had proved to be a frivolous and garrulous old woman,
who substituted ease for comfort, and who burned a candle on the
name-day of her first husband while her second was safely out of
the house.
So it was with something of excitement that Harmony led the way
up the stairs and into the salon of Maria Theresa.
Peter was there. He was sitting with his back to the door, busily
engaged in polishing the horns of the deer. Whatever scruples
Harmony had had about the horns, Peter had none whatever, save to
get them safely out of the place and to the hospital. So Peter
was polishing the horns. Harmony had not expected to find him
home, and paused, rather startled.
"Oh, I didn't know you were home."
Peter spoke without turning.
"Try to bear up under it," he said. "I'm home and hungry,
sweetheart!"
"Peter, please!"
Peter turned at that and rose instantly.
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