booby, can see nothing but red lips. Bah!"

Upstairs in the salon of Maria Theresa, lighted by one candle and
freezing cold, in a stiff chair under the great chandelier Peter
Byrne sat and waited and blew on his fingers. Down below, in the
Street of Seven Stars, the arc lights swung in the wind.



CHAPTER IV

The supper that evening was even unusually bad. Frau Schwarz,
much crimped and clad in frayed black satin, presided at the head
of the long table. There were few, almost no Americans, the
Americans flocking to good food at reckless prices in more
fashionable pensions; to the Frau Gallitzenstein's, for instance,
in the Kochgasse, where there was to be had real beefsteak, where
turkeys were served at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and where,
were one so minded, one might revel in whipped cream.

The Pension Schwarz, however, was not without adornment. In the
center of the table was a large bunch of red cotton roses with
wire stems and green paper leaves, and over the side-table, with
its luxury of compote in tall glass dishes and its wealth of
small hard cakes, there hung a framed motto which said, "Nicht
Rauchen," "No Smoking,"--and which looked suspiciously as if it
had once adorned a compartment of a railroad train.

Peter Byrne was early in the dining-room. He had made, for him, a
careful toilet, which consisted of a shave and clean linen. But