Mrs. Carter was in a pleasant mood; she had a good disposition, and there was nothing in her life now to ruffle it.  She liked her bright, luxurious dressing room, and the progress of her toilette was soothing and restful.  Her maid had been busy with her for nearly two hours.  The air was warm and fragrant, the prospect of dinner, with its eagerly attendant Tony, rather stirred her, and the mirror had everything delightful to say.  Like all women of forty, Isabelle liked the night, tempered lights and becoming settings, and the dignity of formal entertaining.  Last but not least, she had a new toy to-night, a great black fan of uncurled wild ostrich plumes whose tumbled beauty she waved about her slowly as Harriet came in, watching the effect in the mirror with intense satisfaction.

“Oh, pretty—­pretty!” Harriet said, seeing it.

“Isn’t it ducky?  Anthony Pope just sent it to me—­the dear boy.  I don’t know where he picks things up, or how he knows what’s right.”  Mrs. Carter half-closed the fan, and laid it against her bare shoulder, and looked at it with tipped head and half-closed eyes.

“Did you see What’s-His-Name?” she asked.

Harriet understood the allusion to the new chef.

“I’ve just been down there,” she said.  “Everything seems to be all right, and looks delicious!”

“That’s nice of you, Harriet,” Isabelle said.  The kitchen was not strictly Harriet’s responsibility, but Mrs. Carter had been making changes there of late, and the girl’s interest and interference were invaluable.  She laid down the fan, and pushed a silver case toward her secretary, at the same time helping herself to a cigarette.  But Harriet shook her head.

“You’re very clever, you know,” Isabelle smiled, through a cloud of pale smoke.  “You’re always in character, Harriet!”

Harriet smiled her inscrutable smile; there was just the suggestion of a shrug.  She had her own cigarette-case, and not infrequently used it in Isabelle’s presence.  But at this hour, when Richard or Ward or Nina, or even Madame Carter, might come in, she felt any familiarity unsuitable.  Isabelle, the least affected of women, for all her spoiling and vanity, perfectly appreciated this, and liked Harriet for it.

“You amuse me,” said Isabelle, making a long arm to brush away the ash from her cigarette, “playing your part so discreetly.  Your neat little old-maidy silks—­”

“Is it old-maidy?” Harriet asked, mildly, glancing down at the severe blue cross-barred gown she wore, and straightening a transparent cuff.

“Not on you!” Isabella assured her.  But her thoughts never left herself long, and presently she discontentedly introduced her favourite topic:  “I could have been a business woman,” she announced, thoughtfully, “my father wouldn’t hear of it, of course.  We had no money!”

“We had no money, and no father,” Harriet observed.  “So I had no choice.  At eighteen I had to make my own way.”