with too open admiration on Harmony's lovely face, found himself
fixed by a pair of steel-gray eyes that were anything but
humorous at that instant, and thought best to shift his gaze.

The coffee finished, the girl began to gather up her wraps. But
the unknown protested.

"The function of a coffee-house," he explained gravely, "is
twofold. Coffee is only the first half. The second half is
conversation."

"I converse very badly."

"So do I. Suppose we talk about ourselves. We are sure to do that
well. Shall I commence?"

Harmony was in no mood to protest. Having swallowed coffee, why
choke over conversation? Besides, she was very comfortable. It
was warm there, with the heater at her back; better than the
little room with the sagging bed and the doors covered with wall
paper. Her feet had stopped aching, too, She could have sat there
for hours. And--why evade it?--she was interested. This whimsical
and respectful young man with his absurd talk and his shabby
clothes had roused her curiosity.

"Please," she assented.

"Then, first of all, my name. I'm getting that over early,
because it isn't much, as names go. Peter Byrne it is. Don't
shudder."