“At eighteen I jumped into marriage,” the older woman said, still with a reminiscent resentment in her tone.  “Mr. Carter had his mother to support, of course.  We thought we were pretty reckless to pay sixty dollars rent.  He was only twenty, he was getting what was supposed to be an enormous salary then.  Heavens—­it seems thousands of years ago!”

Harriet, who had imagination, could see it.  The little brilliant wife, insisting upon the fashionable apartment, worrying over the extravagances of the one maid.  The man eager only to push on, to more money, more responsibility, wider fields, to make to-day’s extravagance to-morrow’s reasonable expenditure.

Isabelle picked up the fan again, and gave her brilliant presentment in the mirror a complacent glance.

“Is Mr. Pope’s apartment attractive?” Harriet, who knew where her thoughts were, asked idly.  The older woman heard her perfectly, but she affected indifference.

“Is—­I didn’t hear you.  Oh—­Mr. Pope’s apartment.  My dear, it is perfection—­absolutely.  I have never seen anything so beautiful, and so beautifully managed.  And all by that boy.  He has two coloured women and the man—­just a perfect menage.  And they adore him.  Absolutely!” She mused happily, her lips twitching with some amusing memory.  Then she became businesslike.  “Harriet, do you go to the city this week?”

“Nina and the girls are to see Ruth St. Denis on Friday,” Harriet said.  “I thought Madame Carter would take them, but now she says no.  But if Nina stays with her grandmother overnight, I thought I would like to see my sister; she hasn’t been very well.  That can wait, of course.  Miss Jay’s tea-party is to-morrow; that’s Thursday—­”

“And that reminds me that Louise Jay telephoned to-day, and asked me if you would take charge of the tea table,” Isabelle said, with a shrewd glance.

“At Mrs. Jay’s house?” Harriet asked, after a second.

“Yes, at Francesca’s tea-party!”

Harriet hesitated, and the colour crept into her smooth cheeks.

“I wonder why she asked that?”

“Because, in the first place, no one will drink tea,” Isabelle who was watching her intently said promptly.  “In the second, Morgan won’t be there, because she says it’s a kiddies’ tea.  I can’t be there, and presumably Mrs. Jay wants to depend on someone.”

“One wonders,” mused Harriet, in a most unpromising tone, “whether one is asked as a maid, or a guest?”

“In this case, as a mother,” Isabelle was inspired to answer.  “Personally, I should very much like it for Nina’s sake.  But you suit yourself!”

The tone denied the words; Harriet knew what she was expected to do.  She knew that Isabelle would tell Mrs. Jay, in a day or two, that she had simply mentioned it to Miss Field, and Miss Field had been free to act exactly as she pleased.  She knew that faintly annoyed expression on Isabelle’s face.