He put down his packages on the stone floor and caught her arm.

"Not ill, are you?" he asked in English, and then remembering.
"Bist du krank?" He colored violently at that, recalling too late
the familiarity of the "du."

Harmony smiled faintly.

"Only tired," she said in English. "And the odor of cabbage--".

Her color had come back and she freed herself from his supporting
hand. He whistled softly. He had recognized her.

"Cabbage, of course!" he said. "The pension upstairs is full of
it. I live there, and I've eaten so much of it I could be served
up with pork."

"I am going to live there. Is it as bad as that?"

He waved a hand toward the parcels on the floor.

"So bad," he observed, "that I keep body and soul together by
buying strong and odorous food at the delicatessens--odorous,
because only rugged flavors rise above the atmosphere up there.
Cheese is the only thing that really knocks out the cabbage, and
once or twice even cheese has retired defeated."

"But I don't like cheese." In sheer relief from the loneliness of
the day her spirits were rising.