“Nina is in safe hands!” Richard said to himself, thankfully, as he closed the door.  He carried a memory of Harriet’s earnest eyes, her low, eager voice, her encouraging arm about Nina’s shoulders.

They were all at breakfast when he came down the next morning.  His mother, in one of the lacy, flowing robes she always wore before noon, laid down a letter half-read, to smile at him.  Ward, his dark head very sleek above his informal summer costume, was deep in talk with Bruce Hopper, who had evidently ridden over from the country club, and was in a well-fitting, shabby jersey that became his somewhat lanky frame.  Nina, somewhat silent, but interested in everything, wore an expression of quiet self-possession that her father found touching.  Nina was growing up, he thought.

Completing the group, and officiating at the foot of the table, was the radiant Harriet.  She looked as fresh as one of the creamy rosebuds that were massed in the dull blue bowl before her, her shining hair framing the dusky forehead like dull gold wings, the frail sleeves of her blue gown falling back from her rounded arm.

“You’re late, my son,” said Madame Carter, as he kissed her temple.

“Never mind,” Harriet said, serenely, “I’ve just this instant come, and he saves my face!  Do turn that toast, Ward!” she added.  And to the maid, “Mr. Carter’s fruit, Mollie, please.”

Breakfast was the least formal of all the informal meals at Crownlands.  Bottomley was never in evidence until the late luncheon; mail and newspapers, and the morning gaiety of the young people all made for cheerful disorder.

“If you’re going into town at ten, Father, we’ll go, too,” Nina suggested.  “But I can’t,” she was heard to murmur in an undertone to the disappointed Bruce.  “I have to get clothes, don’t I?”

“Oh, Brazil—­Brazil—­Brazil!” the youth said, disgustedly.  “I hate the sound of it!”

“These clothes are for the ranch,” Nina said, smiling.  Both her father and Harriet augured well from the youth’s instantly transformed face.

“Say—­honestly?” he asked, ineloquently, with an irrepressible grin.

“I think so,” Nina murmured.  The rest of their conversation was inaudible; they presently wandered forth to finish it on the tennis court.  Ward followed his grandmother upstairs, and Harriet and Richard were left to finish their breakfast alone.

“You look tired,” Harriet said, rising, when his omelette came in, and pausing beside the head of the table for an instant on her way to the pantry.

“I had a bad night,” Richard admitted.  “But that’s not all you’re going to have for breakfast?” he protested.

“I never have more!” Harriet smiled.  “I’m sorry about the bad night,” said she.

“I couldn’t help thinking——­” Richard began.

“What is it, Mollie?” he added, harshly, to the hovering maid.

“Nothing—­no matter—­sir,” Mollie stammered, retreating.  “It was just that the man about the sheep came, sir——­” she faltered.