and even if he were he
would never think of the sixteenth district. He would make inquiries, of
course--the Pension Schwarz, Boyers', the master's.

The breakfast brought back her strength and the morning air gave her
confidence. The district, too, was less formidable than the neighborhood
of the Karntnerstrasse and the Graben. The shops were smaller. The
windows exhibited cheaper goods. There was a sort of family atmosphere
about many of them; the head of the establishment in the doorway, the
wife at the cashier's desk, daughters, cousins, nieces behind the
wooden counters. The shopkeepers were approachable, instead of familiar.
Harmony met no rebuffs, was respectfully greeted and cheerfully listened
to. In many cases the application ended in a general consultation,
shopkeeper, wife, daughters, nieces, slim clerks with tiny mustaches.
She got addresses, followed them up, more consultations, more addresses,
but no work. The reason dawned on her after a day of tramping, during
which she kept carefully away from that part of the city where Peter
might be searching for her.

The fact was, of course, that her knowledge of English was her sole
asset as a clerk. And there were few English and no tourists in the
sixteenth district. She was marketing a commodity for which there was no
demand.

She lunched at a Konditorei, more to rest her tired body than because
she needed food. The afternoon was as the morning. At six o'clock,
long after the midwinter darkness had fallen, she stumbled back to the
Wollbadgasse and up the whitewashed staircase.

She had a shock at the second landing. A man had stepped into the angle
to let her pass. A gasjet dared over his head, and she recognized the
short heavy figure and ardent eyes of Georgiev. She had her veil down
luckily, and he gave no sign of recognition. She passed on, and she
heard him a second later descending. But there had been something
reminiscent after all in her figure and carriage. The little Georgiev
paused, halfway down, and thought a moment. It was impossible, of
course. All women reminded him of the American. Had he not, only the
day before, followed for two city blocks a woman old enough to be
his mother, merely because she carried a violin case? But there was
something about the girl he had just passed--Bah!

A bad week for Harmony followed, a week of weary days and restless
nights when she slept only to dream of Peter--of his hurt and
incredulous eyes when he fou