The matron melted away; Harriet looked after her broad, retreating back indifferently.  Everyone knew Mrs. Jay, a harmless, generous, good-natured and hospitable target for much secret criticism and laughter.  The odd thing was, old Mrs. Carter had sometimes pointed out to the dutifully listening Harriet, that the woman really came of an excellent family, so that her little affectations, her fondness for the phrases “my older daughter, Morgan,” and “lovely people, loads of money, you know them?” were honest enough, in their way.  She would have loaned Harriet any amount of money, the girl reflected, smouldering, she would have shown her genuine friendship and generosity in a crisis.  But she would not introduce people to Harriet this afternoon, and in a day or two she would send Harriet a bit of lace, or a dainty waist, as a delicate reminder that the courtesy had been a business one, after all.

The afternoon was the perfection of summer beauty, and after a few moments’ solitude Harriet began to feel its spell.  She put her cups and spoons in order, and chatted with a hovering maid.  Some elderly persons came out and sat near, and were grateful for the quiet and the tea.  From the reception line, on the lawn, came such a brainless confusion of jabbering and chattering as might well appall the old and nervous.

And presently the sun came out for Harriet in the arrival of a tall, swiftly moving, dark-eyed woman some ten years older than she was herself:  Mary Putnam, one of the real friends the girl had gained in the last four years.  Young Mrs. Putnam, Harriet used to think, with a little natural jealousy under her admiration, had everything.  She was not pretty, but hers was a distinguished appearance and a lovely face; she had the self-possessed manner of a woman whose whole life has been given to the social arts; she had a clever, kindly, silent husband who adored her; her home, her garden, her clubs and her charities, and finally she had her nursery, where Billy and Betty were rioting through an ideal childhood.

“Harriet—­you dear child!” said the rich and pleased voice, as Mary’s fine hand crossed the tea table for a welcoming touch.  “But how nice to find you here!  I’m trying to get some tea for Mr. Putnam’s aunt and mother, but, my dear—­it’s getting very thick out there!”

“I can imagine it!” Harriet glanced toward the lawn.

“I’ve been wanting to see you,” Mrs. Putnam said in an undertone.  “But suppose I carry them a tray first?  Harriet, you are prettier than ever.  I love the green stripes!  I’ve just been trying to think how long it is since I’ve seen you.”

“Not since the day you lunched with Mrs. Carter, and that was almost two weeks ago!” Harriet’s hands were busy with cups and plates; now she nodded to a maid.  “Mayn’t Inga carry this to your mother, Mrs. Putnam?” she asked.  “And couldn’t you stay here and have some tea yourself?”

Mrs. Putnam immediately settled herself in the neighbouring chair.