And in the broad forehead and the cheek-bones, just a shade high,
and the clearly pencilled brows and the clean modelling of the
straight young chin, there was a certain openness and firmness, a
fortuitous blending of form and proportion that would have made
the head a perfect model for a coin, a wonderful study in pastels.
Looking at her, an artist would have fancied her a bold and
charming and boyish-looking little girl, fifteen years ago, with
that Greek chin and that tawny mane; would have seen her sexless
and splendid in her early teens, with a flat breast and an untamed
eye. And a romancer might have wondered what paths had led her, in
the superb realization of her beautiful womanhood, at twenty-
seven, to this subordinate position in the home of a self-made
rich man, and this conventional tea table on a terrace over the
Hudson. The smoky blue eyes to-day were full of an idle content;
the rounded breast rose and fell quietly under the plain checked
gown with its transparent frills at wrists and throat. Harriet may
have had her moments of rebellion, but this was not one of them.
She had been here for four years; she had held more difficult and
less well-paid positions for the four years before that; she had
known fatigue and ingratitude, and snubs and injustices, as every
business woman, especially in secretarial work, must know them,
and she had no quarrel with this particular occasion. Indeed,
Nina's open adoration, Ward's pointed attentions, and Isabelle's
graciousness were making her feel particularly cheerful, and more
than offset the old lady's disapproval, which was always more
stimulating than otherwise to Harriet.

"Nearly half-past five, Nina," she said, presently. "Go and change
and brush, that's a darling! You look rather tumbled."