Harriet, presently needed again, was astonished at the emotion of the old lady, who had been genuinely fond of her daughter-in-law, and had always been loyal to Isabelle, as one of the Carters.  Madame Carter was greatly shaken, Nina hysterical, Ward aggrieved, irritated at his own feeling.  He had not seen his mother for seven months, she had brought nothing but a certain unpleasant notoriety to her children, yet her death struck both the young creatures forcibly, and they felt shocked and shaken.

“We can’t be in the Fordyce tableaux,” said Nina in an interval between floods of sobs.  “Not that I would want to, now!  But I don’t know; it seems to me that I am the most unfortunate girl in the world!”

“I think both you and Ward should wear black for a certain period,” Richard said to her.  He had been walking the floor nervously, stopping now and then beside the great chair where his mother sat silent and stricken, to put his arm about her shoulders, and murmur to her consolingly.

“When my mother died,” Madame Carter quavered, with her handkerchief pressed to the tip of her nose, “my sisters and I wore black, and refused all social engagements for one year.  We then, I remember distinctly, began to wear white and lavender—­”

Harriet smiled inwardly at the picture of Victorian mourning and compared it to the mourning of to-day, as different indeed as was the conception of motherhood to-day.

“I remember that a cousin of my mother, Cousin Mallie we used to call her, got in a sewing woman, and all our black things were made right there in the house—­” the old lady was pursuing, mournfully, when Nina broke in pettishly: 

“I don’t see why I have to wear black!”

“Why should you?” Ward said with bitter scorn.  “It’s only your mother!” Nina began to cry.

“You and I will go down to Landmann’s early to-morrow, Nina,” Harriet suggested, “and we’ll have someone show us what is simple and nice—­not crape, you know,” Harriet said with a glance at Richard Carter, “but black, for a few months anyway.”

“I think that would be the least, Richard,” his mother approved.  “I believe I will go with you,” she condescended to Harriet, “after all, Isabelle was my daughter-in-law, and the mother of my grandchildren!”

“And I won’t go to California or Bermuda or any-where else unless Ladybird comes!” Nina burst out, with a broken sob.

“Nonsense!” her father began harshly.  Harriet said: 

“Bermuda?  Is there a plan for Bermuda?”

“I suggested it for a few weeks,” Richard said, frowning, “but I don’t propose to have Nina invite a group of friends.  That isn’t exactly the idea.”

“We could ask Mrs. Tabor,” Harriet said, soothingly; “it is right in the middle of the season, and perhaps she will feel she can hardly spare the time.  But I’m sure that if she can—­”

“If I ask her, she’ll go,” Nina said, in a sulky, confident undertone.