With a great sense of adventure she looked down from the unfamiliar windows at a new perspective of driveway and garden, peeped into the big square bedroom beyond.  Two large photographs of Nina and Ward and an oil painting of his mother were here; there had been several pictures of Isabelle once, Harriet knew, but these had long ago disappeared.

Suddenly her heart turned to water; some tiny sound in the silence warning her that someone had entered.  She turned, discovered here in the very centre of his own private apartment.  He was standing not three feet away from her.  For a second they stared at each other with a sort of mutual trepidation.

“Hello!” he said; then matter-of-factly, “I brought home a paper to-night; I wanted Unger to see it!  I left it in the suit I wore.”

He stepped to the dressing room, and groped in a pocket, without moving his pleasant look from her.

“Giving my room the once over?” he said.

“Nina left the door open.  I’ve never been in here before,” Harriet said, trying to make her voice as natural as his own.  Confused and ashamed, she was hardly conscious of what she said.

“Here we are!” Richard glanced at the paper he had found.  “See here,” he said, presently, going to a window, “come here a minute, I want to show you this!  You see,” they were both looking out into the moonlight now, “you see, this is where I propose to build on that big room downstairs, throw the library into the blue room, and have a big sleeping porch upstairs here,” he explained.  “Perfectly feasible, and yet it will make a different house of it!”

Harriet commented interestedly enough.  But she heard his voice rather than his words, and saw only the well-groomed, black-clad figure, the shining patent-leather shoes, the fine hand that indicated the changes.

Perhaps he was conscious of confusion, too, for his words stopped, and presently they were looking at each other in a strange silence, Richard still smiling, Harriet wide eyed.

Then suddenly his strong arms held her close, and her blue, frightened eyes were close to his, and she felt everything else in the world slip away from her except the exquisite knowledge that she loved this man with all her heart and soul.

“I want to tell you something,” Richard said, quickly and incoherently.  “I want you to know that I love you—­I think I’ve always loved you!  This wasn’t in our bond, I know, but I think I couldn’t have wanted you so without loving you!  If—­if the time comes, Harriet, when you can care for me, you’ll tell me, won’t you?  That’s all I want, just to know that you will tell me.  You’re going to tell me, yourself!  I’m going to make you love me!  I’ll be patient—­I’ll not hurry you—­but some day you’ll have to tell me that I’ve—­I’ve won you!”

He had spoken swiftly, almost sternly, with a sort of desperate determination.  Now he freed her arms as suddenly as he had grasped them, and added, in a lower tone: