e lamp on the card-table. Stewart was orating from a
pinnacle of proprietorship.

"Exactly," he was saying, in reply to something gone before; "I used
to come here Saturday nights--used to come early and take a bath.
Worthington had rented it furnished for a song. Used to sit in a corner
and envy Worthington his bathtub, and that lamp there, and decent food,
and a bed that didn't suffer from necrosis in the center. Then when he
was called home I took it."

"Girl and all, wasn't it?"

"Girl and all. Old Worth said she was straight, and, by Jove, she is. He
came back last fall on his wedding trip--he married a wealthy girl and
came to see us. I was out, but Marie was here. There was the deuce to
pay."

He lowered his voice. The men had gathered about him in a group.

"Jealous, eh?" from Hunter.

"Jealous? No! He tried to kiss her and she hit him--said he didn't
respect her!"

"It's a curious code of honor," said Boyer thoughtfully. And indeed to
none but Stewart did it seem amusing. This little girl of the streets,
driven by God knows what necessity to make her own code and, having made
it, living up to it with every fiber of her.

"Bitte zum speisen!" called Marie gayly from her brick stove, and the
men trooped out to the kitchen.

The supper was spread on the table, with the pitcher of beer in the
center. There were Swiss cheese and cold ham and rolls, and above all
sausages and mustard. Peter drank a great deal of beer, as did the
others, and sang German songs with a frightful accent and much vigor and
sentiment, as also did the others.

Then he went back to the cold room in the Pension Schwarz, and told
himself he was a fool to live alone when one could live like a prince
for the same sum properly laid out. He dropped into the hollow center of
his bed, where his big figure fitted as comfortably as though it lay in
a washtub, and before his eyes there came a vision of Stewart's flat and
the slippers by the fire--which was eminently human.

However, a moment later he yawned, and said aloud, with considerable
vigor, that he'd be damned if he would--which was eminently Peter Byrne.
Almost immediately, with the bed coverings, augmented by his overcoat,
drawn snug to his chin, and the better necktie swinging from the gasjet
in the air from the opened window, Peter was asleep. For four hours he
had entirely forgotten Harmony.

CHAPTER V

The peace of a gray Sunday morning hung like a cloud over the littl