s fur-lined coat, got into it as slowly as
possible. Then he missed a glove, and it must be searched for in all
the dark corners of the salon until found in his pocket. Even then he
hesitated, lingered, loath to break up this little world of two.

"You play wonderfully," he said.

"So do you."

"If only something comes of it! It's curious, isn't it, when you think
of it? You and I meeting here in the center of Europe and both of us
working our heads off for something that may never pan out."

There was something reminiscent about that to Harmony. It was not until
after young McLean had gone that she recalled. It was almost word for
word what Peter had said to her in the coffee-house the night they met.
She thought it very curious, the coincidence, and pondered it, being
ignorant of the fact that it is always a matter for wonder when the
man meets the woman, no matter where. Nothing is less curious, more
inevitable, more amazing. "You and I," forsooth, said Peter!

"You and I," cried young McLean!

CHAPTER XVI

Quite suddenly Peter's house, built on the sand, collapsed. The shock
came on Christmas-Day, after young McLean, now frankly infatuated, had
been driven home by Peter.

Peter did it after his own fashion. Harmony, with unflagging enthusiasm,
was looking tired. Suggestions to this effect rolled off McLean's back
like rain off a roof. Finally Peter gathered up the fur-lined coat, the
velours hat, gloves, and stick, and placed them on the piano in front of
the younger man.

"I'm sorry you must go," said Peter calmly, "but, as you say, Miss Wells
is tired and there is supper to be eaten. Don't let me hurry you."

The Portier was at the door as McLean, laughing and protesting, went
out. He brought a cablegram for Anna. Peter took it to her door and
waited uneasily while she read it.

It was an urgent summons home; the old father was very low. He was
calling for her, and a few days or week' would see the end. There were
things that must be looked after. The need of her was imperative.
With the death the old man's pension would cease and Anna was the
bread-winner.

Anna held the paper out to Peter and sat down. Her nervous strength
seemed to have deserted her. All at once she was a stricken, elderly
woman, with hope wiped out of her face and something nearer resentment
than grief in its place.

"It has come, Peter," she said dully. "I always knew it couldn't last.
They've always hung about my neck, a