ippers, absently filed the little note with the others--where he came
across it months later--next to a lecture on McBurney's Point, and spent
a sad hour or so over it. Over all the sordid little pension, with its
odors of food and stale air, its spotted napery and dusty artificial
flowers, the music hovered, and made for the time all things lovely.

In her room across from Harmony's, Anna Gates was sewing, or preparing
to sew. Her hair in a knob, her sleeves rolled up, the room in violent
disorder, she was bending over the bed, cutting savagely at a roll of
pink flannel. Because she was working with curved surgeon's scissors,
borrowed from Peter, the cut edges were strangely scalloped. Her method
as well as her tools was unique. Clearly she was intent on a body
garment, for now and then she picked up the flannel and held it to her.
Having thus, as one may say, got the line of the thing, she proceeded to
cut again, jaw tight set, small veins on her forehead swelling, a small
replica of Peter Byrne sewing a button on his coat.

After a time it became clear to her that her method was wrong. She
rolled up the flannel viciously and flung it into a corner, and
proceeded to her Sunday morning occupation of putting away the garments
she had worn during the week, a vast and motley collection.

On the irritability of her mood Harmony's music had a late but certain
effect. She made a toilet, a trifle less casual than usual, seeing that
she put on her stays, and rather sheepishly picked up the bundle from
the corner. She hunted about for a thimble, being certain she had
brought one from home a year before, but failed to find it. And finally,
bundle under her arm and smiling, she knocked at Harmony's door.

"Would you mind letting me sit with you?" she asked. "I'll not stir. I
want to sew, and my room is such a mess!"

Harmony threw the door wide. "You will make me very happy, if only my
practicing does not disturb you."

Dr. Gates came in and closed the door.

"I'll probably be the disturbing element," she said. "I'm a noisy
sewer."

Harmony's immaculate room and radiant person put her in good humor
immediately. She borrowed a thimble--not because she cared whether
she had one or not, but because she knew a thimble was a part of the
game--and settled herself in a corner, her ragged pieces in her lap. For
an hour she plodded along and Harmony played. Then the girl put down her
bow and turned to the corner. The little doctor