Isabelle fluttered forward, to fare a little more fortunately.  Ward dropped into the background now, and his beautiful little mother stood in a full sunset flood of light, with her small hand in that of the lion, and the cream and black hat, with its pink roses, close to the drooping, reverential head.

It was Isabelle who brought him to the tea table.  Harriet had felt, with a sure premonition of disaster, that it must be.  She might not escape, there was nothing for it but courage, now.  Her breath was behaving badly, and the muscles contracted in her throat, but she managed a smile.

“And this is Miss Field, Mr. Blondin,” said Isabella.  “She will give you some tea!”

“Miss Field,” said Royal Blondin, and his dark hand came across the tea-cups.  Harriet, as his thin mouth twitched with just the hint of a smile, looked straight into his eyes, and she knew he was as frightened as she.  But from neither was there a visible sign of consternation.  “No tea,” the man said, making of the decision a splendid and significant renunciation.  “Nothing—­ nothing!”

“He only eats about once a month, and then it’s dates and hay and camel’s milk and carrots!” Ward was beginning.  Royal Blondin gave him a look, deeply amused and affectionate.

“Not quite so bad, Laddie!” he protested, mildly.

“We might manage the dates,” Isabelle smiled.  Harriet had not spoken because she was quite unable to command her voice.  But she gained it now to say in an undertone: 

“I think I shall have to go in, Mrs. Carter.  I promised Nina some help with her Spanish.  I wonder—­”

“You speak Spanish, Miss Field?” said Royal Blondin, in Spanish.

This was an invitation to Ward to burst into involved sentences in the tongue; Royal Blondin turned to him seriously.  The rest of the company might be bored or not, as they pleased, but he was only interested in testing the boy’s accent and vocabulary.  As a matter of fact, everyone laughed and listened, perfectly appreciating Ward’s mad ventures and the other man’s liquid and easy assistance.  A few seconds later Harriet Field slipped from her place, crossed the terrace with her heart beating sick and fast with fright, and made her escape.

She ran up the awninged steps that led to the square great hall, and ascertained with relief that it was empty.  On all sides wide doorways gave her perspectives:  the drawing rooms, in their brilliant summer covers; the porches, with wicker tables and chairs; the music room; the breakfast room all cheerful green and white; the library, in cool north shadow; and the dining room, long and dark and dignified, where maids were already moving noiselessly about the business of dinner.  Here in the hall was the pleasant shade and coolness, the subtle drifting scent of early summer flowers, space, and the simplicity of dark polished floors and sombre rugs.  The whole house seemed empty, lovely, silent, after the confusion of the terrace and the heat of the summer day.