“Thank you!” Harriet said, almost inaudibly.

“Simply change your name on your checks,” Richard said, thoughtfully.  “I shall have Fox step into the bank with the authenticated signature.  And if there is anything else, use your own judgment.  Perhaps, if I tell my mother, you would like to write to certain friends—?  You can continue to draw on the Corn Exchange, that’s simplest, and I hope you’ll remember that you have a large personal credit there,” he added, with a smile.  “It occurred to me to-night that you—­you mustn’t let your sister worry about that new house.  If you want your own car—­”

“Oh, good heavens, Mr. Carter!” Harriet said, suffocating.

“Ask me anything that puzzles you,” the man said.  And with a brief good-night he was gone.  Harriet, who had dropped back into her chair, sat absolutely motionless for a long, long time.  Her eyes were fixed on space; she hardly breathed; it almost seemed as if her heart was stopped.

Richard went downstairs, surprised to feel still vaguely unsatisfied.  He had had his word with Harriet, had said indeed much that he had not expected to say.  However, it was much better to let the world know their relationship; he was perfectly satisfied to have it so.  But still, as he settled himself to an hour’s reading, the plaguing little impulse persisted.  He would like to go upstairs again; he missed her companionship.

There was something very appealing about this woman, thought Richard, suddenly closing his book.  Her beauty, her silences, her complete subjugation of her own interests to his, he found strangely fascinating.  She had looked extremely beautiful in that long, dark blue bedroom gown, reading Shakespeare.  He wondered why she read Shakespeare.

“By George, she has made a most interesting woman of herself!” Richard decided, opening his book again.  “She ought to be right in the middle of things, that girl!”

He was still reading when Nina and Amy came in, and yawned him good-nights from the library doorway.  He heard them go upstairs, heard a burst of laughter and nonsense, and then Harriet’s rich voice, and then the closing door.  Then there was silence.  Richard discovered that he was sleepy, and went upstairs, too.

A day or two later Madame Carter came out to the terrace at eleven o’clock, beautifully groomed and gowned, and with an imperative hand arrested Harriet, who was tumbled and sunburned from the tennis court and was going toward the house.

“Just a moment, Miss Field,” said she, magnificently.  Harriet obediently stood still, and watched Madame Carter’s magnificence settle itself slowly in a basket chair.  The old lady freed an eyeglass ribbon deliberately, straightened a ruffle, laid her magazine beside her on a table.  “There was a little matter of which I wished to speak to you,” she said, suavely, bringing her distant glance to rest dispassionately for a moment upon Harriet’s face.