“Tea, Mr. Carter?” Harriet ventured.

He was watching his wife with a sort of idle interest.  She had to repeat her invitation.

“If you please, Miss Field!  Tea sounded right, somehow, to me to-day.  It’s been a terrible day!”

“I can imagine it!” Harriet’s voice was pleasantly commonplace.  But the moment had its thrill for her.  This lean, tall, tired man, with his abstract manner, his perfunctory courtesies, his nervous, clever hands, loomed in oddly heroic proportions in Harriet’s life.  His face was keen and somewhat lined under a smooth crest of slightly graying hair; he smiled very rarely, but there was a certain kindliness in his gray eyes, when Nina or Ward or his wife turned to him, that Harriet liked.  He came and went quietly, absorbed in his business, getting in and out of his cars with a murmur to his chauffeur, disappearing with his golf sticks, presiding almost silently over his own animated dinner table.  He was always well groomed, well dressed without being in the least conspicuous; always more or less tired when she saw him.  In the evenings he smoked, listened to music, went early to bed.  But he never failed to visit his mother, or pay her some little definite attention when she was with them; and when Madame Carter was in her New York apartment he called on her nearly every day.

For Harriet he had hardly a dozen words a year.  He merely smiled kindly when she thanked him for the Christmas gift that bore his untouched card; if she went to her sister for a day or two, he gave her only a nod of greeting when she came back.  Sometimes he thanked her for a small favour, briefly and indifferently; now and then asked with sharp interest about Nina’s teeth or his mother’s headache.

But Harriet had known other types of men, and for his very silences, for his indifference, for his loyalty to his own women, she had begun to admire him long ago.  She had not been born in this atmosphere of pleasure and ease and riches; she was not entirely unfitted to judge a man.  There was not much to awaken respect in the men she met at Crownlands, still less in the women.  She liked Ward for his artless boyishness; forgave Anthony Pope much because he was straight and clean and self-respecting; but there were plenty of other men, spoiled and selfish, weak and stupid; men who amused and flattered Isabelle Carter perhaps, but among whom her husband loomed a very giant.  Harriet had watched Richard Carter with a keenness of which she was hardly conscious herself, ready to detect the flaw, the weakness in his character, but she never found it, and after awhile she became his silent champion, his secret ally in all domestic matters, quick to see that his mail and his telephone messages were sacred, that his meals never were late, and that any small request, such as the use of the study for some unexpected conference, or the speedy sending of a telegram, was promptly granted.