She grew thin and sunken-eyed; took to dividing
her small hoard, half of it with her, half under the carpet, so
that in case of accident all would not be gone.
This, as it happened, was serious. One day, the sixth, she came
back wet to the skin from an all-day rain, to find that the
carpet bank had been looted. There was no clue. The stolid
Hungarian, startled out of her lethargy, protested innocence; the
little dressmaker, who seemed honest and friendly, wept in sheer
sympathy. The fact remained--half the small hoard was gone.
Two days more, a Sunday and a Monday. On Sunday Harmony played,
and Georgiev in the room below, translating into cipher a recent
conference between the Austrian Minister of War and the German
Ambassador, put aside his work and listened. She played, as once
before she had played when life seemed sad and tragic, the
"Humoresque." Georgiev, hands behind his head and eyes upturned,
was back in the Pension Schwarz that night months ago when
Harmony played the "Humoresque" and Peter stooped outside her
door. The little Bulgarian sighed and dreamed.
Harmony, a little sadder, a little more forlorn each day, pursued
her hopeless quest. She ventured into the heart of the Stadt and
paid a part of her remaining money to an employment bureau, to
teach English or violin, whichever offered, or even both. After
she had paid they told her it would be difficult, almost
impossible without references.
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