And over all hung the incessant worry about money; he could just manage alone. He could not, by any method he knew of, stretch his resources to cover a separate arrangement for himself. But he had undertaken to shield a girl-woman and a child, and shield them he would and could.
Brave thoughts were Peter's that snowy morning in the great salon of Maria Theresa, with the cat of the Portier purring before the fire; brave thoughts, cool reason, with Harmony practicing scales very softly while Jimmy slept, and with Anna speeding through a white world, to the accompaniment of bitter meditation.
Peter had meant to go to Semmering that day, but even the urgency of Marie's need faded before his own situation. He wired Stewart that he would come as soon as he could, and immediately after lunch departed for the club, Anna's list in his pocket, Harmony's requirements in mind. He paused at Jimmy's door on his way out.
“What shall it be to-day?” he inquired. “A postcard or a crayon?”
“I wish I could have a dog.”
“We'll have a dog when you are better and can take him walking. Wait until spring, son.”
“Some more mice?”
“You will have them—but not to-day.”
“What holiday comes next?”
“New Year's Day. Suppose I bring you a New Year's card.”