he bathroom a tiny kitchen with a brick stove; next, a bedroom;
the whole incredibly neat. Along one side of the wall a clothespress,
which the combined wardrobes of two did not fill. And beyond that again,
opening through an arch with a dingy chenille curtain, the sitting-room,
now in chaotic disorder.

Byrne went directly to the sitting-room. There were four men already
there: Stewart and Boyer, a pathology man named Wallace Hunter, doing
research work at the general hospital, and a young piano student from
Tennessee named MacLean. The cards had been already dealt, and Byrne
stood by waiting for the hand to be played.

The game was a small one, as befitted the means of the majority. It was
a regular Saturday night affair, as much a custom as the beer that sat
in Steins on the floor beside each man, or as Marie's boiled Wiener
sausages.

The blue chips represented a Krone, the white ones five Hellers.
MacLean, who was hardly more than a boy, was winning, drawing in chips
with quick gestures of his long pianist's fingers.

Byrne sat down and picked up his cards. Stewart was staying out, and so,
after a glance, did he. The other three drew cards and fell to betting.
Stewart leaned back and filled his long pipe, and after a second's
hesitation Byrne turned to him.

"I don't know just what to say, Stewart," he began in an undertone. "I'm
sorry. I didn't want to hurt Marie, but--"

"Oh, that's all right." Stewart drew at his pipe and bent forward to
watch the game with an air of ending the discussion.

"Not at all. I did hurt her and I want to explain. Marie has been kind
to me, and I like her. You know that."

"Don't be an ass!" Stewart turned on him sharply. "Marie is a little
fool, that's all. I didn't know it was an American girl."

Byrne played in bad luck. His mind was not on the cards. He stayed
out of the last hand, and with a cigarette wandered about the room. He
glanced into the tidy bedroom and beyond, to where Marie hovered over
the stove.

She turned and saw him.

"Come," she called. "Watch the supper for me while I go down for more
beer."

"But no," he replied, imitating her tone. "Watch the supper for me while
I go down for more beer."

"I love thee," she called merrily. "Tell the Herr Doktor I love thee.
And here is the pitcher."

When he returned the supper was already laid in the little kitchen. The
cards were put away, and young MacLean and Wallace Hunter were replacing
the cover and th