Old Madame Carter was the only stumbling block now; there was no question of her definite hostility.  It was partly the jealousy of age for youth, of departed beauty for beauty in its prime, but it was mainly actuated by the old lady’s sense of pride, her firm belief that there was some mysterious merit of birth in the Carter blood, and that to friendship with the Carters a mere upstart, a secretary, a working-woman, could not with any justice aspire.  In a thousand ways, many of them approaching actual mendacity, she undermined Harriet’s usefulness, and annoyed and distracted the domestic force.  If Harriet decided that the weather was too warm for an out-of-door luncheon, Madame Carter pleasantly overruled her, and there was much running to and fro for the change.  Messages undelivered by the old lady were attributed to the secretary’s carelessness, and there was more than one occasion when Harriet had no choice between silence toward Madame Carter or the flat accusation of untruthfulness.

Every hour under his roof, however, helped to convince her that Richard Carter was unaware of very little that transpired there.  His reading of Nina’s young secret had proved that; Harriet never remembered his ready allusion to “In a Gondola” without surprise.  How he had managed to obtain that particular detail she could not imagine.  But she hoped that he read the relationship between her and his mother as truly, and that time would reconcile the old lady to her presence in the house.

With September came changes.  Blondin wrote that he was limping about with a stick, and wanted to limp down to them as soon as they would ask him.  Ward was home again, as always irresponsible, a little older and in some vague way a little coarser, Harriet thought, but still a most enlivening element in the quiet household.  Madame Carter had brought with her, for several weeks’ stay, a friend of Isabelle’s, a pretty, dashing little grass widow, Mrs. Tabor.  The resolute brightness and sweetness with which Ida Tabor attempted to amuse Richard gave Harriet some hint of the plan which was taking shape in the back of his mother’s head.  But she could only make Mrs. Tabor comfortable, and fit her somehow into the youthful plans of the household.

“Miss Harriet,” Nina said, without preamble, lying flat on the gently rocking float, and catching little handfuls of water as she spoke, “what’ll I wear to-morrow?”

Harriet had already settled this question several times, but she was always patient with Nina.

“White is prettiest,” she said; “didn’t we decide for the organdie?”

“The white with the rolled hem,” Nina said with unction, “and pale pink stockings, and white shoes.”

“That will do nicely!” Harriet, always happiest in the water, was sitting on the edge of the float, with her feet idly splashing.  A glorious September sun blazed down upon the water, there was absolute silence up and down the curving shore.  Above the plumy tops of the trees, rising abruptly from the beach with its weather-burned bath houses, the gables and porches of the new home showed here and there.  There were other country mansions scattered up and down beside the blue waters of the Sound, but the Carters had no sense of having neighbours.