Breathless, too, he flung back his hair, and stooped to pick up her parasol.

“Do you think I care!” he panted, indifferently.  “I wouldn’t care if the whole world saw!”

“Sh—­sh!” By the magic only known to youth and womanhood Harriet had gathered herself into trimness and calm again.  She took her parasol composedly.  Her eyes told him the whole story.  Nina and Royal Blondin were two hundred feet away, coming up from the tennis court.

The four met cheerfully; apparently all at ease.  Nina was stammering and blushing a trifle more than usual, but Royal’s presence would account for that.  Ward burst into a stream of idiotic conversation; Harriet found herself sauntering ahead of the young Carters, discussing Sheringham fans with the dilletant.

“You fool—­fool—­fool!” she said to herself.  What had they seen?  What new twist to the situation would Nina’s suspicions afford?  Richard Carter trusted her; this was no time to tell him that she loved his son.  Did she love Ward?—­or with his keen and kindly eyes would Ward’s father see exactly what she saw in the marriage?  Caught kissing in the woods—­like Rosa or Germaine; it was unthinkable!  She, with her hard-won prestige of dignity and reserve, exposed to Nina’s laughing insinuations, or, worse, Nina’s prim disapproval.  How she had weakened her position here!  How she had risked—­her heart contracted with pain—­severing of her association with Crownlands.

Luncheon, under its veneer of gaiety and foolishness, offered fresh terrors.  For old Madame Carter had come down, and it occurred to Harriet that if Nina had seen anything in the wood, she might naturally interest her grandmother with an account of it.  Nina rarely had so interesting a topic of conversation.  The old lady would go instantly to her son.  And Richard—­Harriet could imagine him, tired, harassed, heartsick over the recent inexplicable weakness of his wife, having to face another woman’s treachery, having to listen to the demure announcement of the little secretary’s engagement to his son.

Perhaps not treachery, exactly, thought Harriet, as the birds, and the asparagus, and the crisp little rolls went the rounds.  She ate, hardly knowing what she tasted, and spoke with only a partial consciousness of what she said.  No, not treachery exactly, especially if she went to Richard first with the news.

But break in upon his painful speculations with the blithe announcement?  What must he think of such utter lack of consideration?  He was experiencing the most overwhelming shock of all his life now; he must shortly be exposed to all the whirl of scandal:  the silenced gossip, the averted eyes of his world, the weeklies with their muddy insinuations, the staring fact headlined above his breakfast bacon.  This was her time to efface herself and the household, to help him to lift the load.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t listening, Mr. Blondin?”

“Miss Nina and I want to know what day we may have our party?” Royal repeated.