“Linda, my sister, thinks it would be unwise,” she began.  The man interrupted her.

“There has been a new turn of events, Miss Field.  I had some information last night which may make a difference,” he said, gravely.  “I received a wire from Pope, in France.  My wife—­ Isabelle—­died on an operating table yesterday afternoon, in Paris.”

Harriet, stupefied, could only look at him fixedly for a long minute.  Her lips parted, but she did not speak.

“Died?” she whispered, sharply.  The man nodded without speaking.  “But—­but what was it?” Harriet said.

For answer he gave her the crumpled cable, with the bare statement of fact.  She read it dazedly, looked at his sombre face, and read it again.

“I need not tell you that it is a shock,” Richard said, looking off toward the bare village in its mantle of trampled snow.  “It—­ it is—­a shock.”  And he folded the cable and returned it to his pocket.  “We were married twenty-three years,” he said, simply.  “She was an extremely pretty girl, vivacious and happy—­I imagine hers was a happy life!”

“I can’t believe it!” Harriet said.

“Well, now,” Richard began presently in a different tone, “we are, as I said, Miss Field, in a mess.  I haven’t told the children this; they have a lot of young people there over Christmas.  Bottomley tells me that he is leaving on the first.  My mother and Nina are planning some entertainment for New Year’s night, and I suppose this will end all that; I should suppose that Nina and her brother must have a period of mourning.  I am deeply involved in a big project in Brazil, committee meetings all through January—­I can’t swing it, that’s all.

“Now, when we last talked of the subject together,” Richard pursued in a businesslike way, “you objected to the suggestion of a marriage, because my wife was then still alive.  Am I correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct!” Harriet said, voicelessly.  She felt herself beginning to tremble.

“My purpose in coming to-day was to suggest that, if that was your sole objection,” the man continued, painstakingly, “you might feel the situation changed now.  I need you.  We all do.  If it is my mother who makes it impossible, or some other thing that I cannot change—­why, I must get along as best I can.  But my proposition is that you and I are quietly married to-morrow; you come back to-morrow night, and announce it whenever you see fit.  Of course, it might be wiser not to have the two announcements come together; there will be the usual talk; Nina and my mother prostrated; and so on, and perhaps—­but you must use your own judgment there.  I may seem a little matter-of-fact about this, Miss Field, but I am hoping you understand.  You have impressed me as a woman of unusual intelligence and sagacity; I am making you an unsentimental business offer.  I need you in my life and I offer you certain advantages which it would be silly and school-boyish for me to deny