He had met the widow of Joe Hopper a few nights ago:  a faded little pleasant woman of fifty, pathetically grateful for his casual politeness in her strangeness and shyness.  He had chanced, quite idly and accidentally, to make an impression on her.  She had promised to come to the studio and look at his rugs.

Royal wondered why she dressed so badly; she needed simple materials and flowing lines.  He heard himself telling her so.

Richard sat on, on the terrace, thinking, and presently his mother came out and joined him.  Wasn’t he, the old lady asked elaborately, going to the club?  It was almost five o’clock, her son reminded her.  Two or three of his business associates were coming to dinner; Hansen was to drive them all into the city later.  Now, he just felt lazy.

“No tea to-day?” he asked, presently.  People usually went to the club on Sunday, said his mother.  She added, irrelevantly, that Harriet was asleep.  Richard said that she had looked tired this morning; sleep was the best thing for her.

But suddenly life became significant and thrilling again; he heard her voice, her laugh.  She came swiftly and quietly out to them, smiling at him, settling herself in the chair beside his mother.  She wore white, transparent, simple; there were coral beads about her firm young throat.  The dew of her deep sleep made her blue eyes wonderful; her cheeks were as pink as a baby’s.

“Aren’t the June days delicious?” she said.  Richard studied her, smilingly, without answering.  What would she say next, where would she move her eyes, or lay her white hand, he wondered.  When she murmured to his mother in an undertone, he tried to catch the words.

“We’re to have tea,” Harriet announced.  When it came, she poured it; for awhile the three were alone.  Richard found himself talking to make her talk, but she was apparently interested only to draw out his mother and himself.  “I’m starving,” she presently said, apologetically, “this is luncheon and breakfast, too, for me!”

“Did you have a good sleep?” Richard asked.  She flashed him an eloquent look.

“Oh—­the most delightful of my whole life!  Eight hours without stirring!”

The Hoyts arrived:  a handsome mother and two equally handsome daughters.  Harriet went to them gracefully; Richard saw that she was accepting good wishes.  She took the callers to his mother, and filled their cups herself.

“She certainly is wonderful!” Richard said.  He perfectly realized his own suddenly deepening feeling for her, but he dared not analyze it yet.  When Mrs. Hoyt hinted at a dinner, he took part in the conversation.  “Thursday?  Why not, Harriet?  We have no engagement for Thursday?”

She flushed brightly, signalling to him that she had already indicated an excuse.  They had never dined together away from home.  He need not think, said Harriet’s anxious manner, that he need carry the appearance of marriage so far.