His pipes took time, and the wooden sentry he packed
with great care and a bit of healthy emotion. Once or twice he
came across trifles of Harmony's, and he put them carefully
aside--the sweater coat, a folded handkerchief, a bow she had
worn at her throat. The bow brought back the night before and
that reckless kiss on her white throat. Well for Peter to get
away if he is to keep his resolution, when the sight of a ribbon
bow can bring that look of suffering into his eyes.
The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot,
any foot at all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor.
"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen," he sang at the top
of his voice, and coughed, a bit of floor wax having got into the
air. The antlers of the deer from the wild-game shop hung now in
his bedroom. When the wildgame seller came over for coffee there
would be a discussion probably. But were not the antlers of all
deer similar?
The Portier's wife came to the doorway with a cooking fork in her
hand.
"A cab," she announced, "with a devil's imp on the box. Perhaps
it is that American dancer. Run and pretty thyself!"
It was too late for more than an upward twist of a mustache.
Harmony was at the door, but not the sad-eyed Harmony of a week
before or the undecided and troubled girl of before that. A
radiant Harmony, this, who stood in the doorway, who wished them
good-morning, and ran up the old staircase with glowing eyes and
a heart that leaped and throbbed.
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