“Well, if you say so, I’ll believe you!” Nina said.  Harriet knew that they had been aware of her nearness, but now she very deliberately closed the door.

At luncheon everything was exactly as usual; Richard had gone to the city, not to return for a night or two, and several social engagements distracted the young people from the contemplation of their father’s affairs.

Harriet had not dared to hope that they would accept the situation so quietly, or that the world would.  There were callers on the terrace every afternoon, there were pleasant congratulations and good wishes, there were a few paragraphs in the social weeklies.  Richard had for years been too busy for mere entertaining, and the dinner parties and luncheons to the new Mrs. Carter, it was generally felt, must wait until next season.

Meanwhile, the speculating world saw her going quietly about the house, advising Nina, conferring with the domestic staff, laughing with Ward.  She immediately formed a habit of going into the old lady’s room every morning:  Madame Carter had quite accepted her as a member of the great house of Carter now, and came to depend upon the half-hour of morning gossip.  The world saw her in a box at the theatre, with the young Carters, saw that Richard presently joined them, and laughed, in the shadowy back of the box, at something his beautiful new wife said to him over her shoulder.  The world was obliged to decide that the little secretary took her promotion very coolly, that there was something queer about it.

But inwardly the little secretary was thrilled to her heart’s core.  Even to glance at the gold ring on her finger made Harriet feel as if a happiness almost shameful was bared to view.  Her new position, modestly as she filled it, was yet a high position.  She saw Richard’s growing affection and trust, if he did not.  She could afford to wait.

She visited Linda, almost afraid to show new gowns and new generosity, almost afraid of the constant “Mrs. Carter.”

“They’ll be ruined!” Linda laughed, of the children’s summer gowns and the camera and wrist watch that transported Julia and Josephine to Paradise.  This rustling and perfumed Harriet, with the flowered little French hat, and the filmy little odd gowns, was almost bewildering.

Decorously having tea on the terrace in the June afternoons, knowing herself the centre of interest, Harriet’s heart sang with a wild inward delight.  She smiled; she could afford the friendliest interest for everyone’s affairs.  When her own were touched, there was a youthful flushing, a deprecatory smile.  But she took no one into her confidence.

“But when are you and Dick Carter going to dine with us?” Mary Putnam said, one afternoon, at tea.  Madame Carter, whose Victorian ideal of romance was not at all dissatisfied with the idea of the employer marrying his daughter’s beautiful governess, smiled significantly.

“They’re very odd lovers, my dear,” she said to Mary with an eloquent glance.  Mary laughed, and looked at Harriet, whose face was suddenly crimson, though she tried to laugh, too.  The visitor, with instant kindness, covered the little break.