presiding almost silently over his own animated dinner table. He
was always well groomed, well dressed without being in the least
conspicuous; always more or less tired when she saw him. In the
evenings he smoked, listened to music, went early to bed. But he
never failed to visit his mother, or pay her some little definite
attention when she was with them; and when Madame Carter was in
her New York apartment he called on her nearly every day.

For Harriet he had hardly a dozen words a year. He merely smiled
kindly when she thanked him for the Christmas gift that bore his
untouched card; if she went to her sister for a day or two, he
gave her only a nod of greeting when she came back. Sometimes he
thanked her for a small favour, briefly and indifferently; now and
then asked with sharp interest about Nina's teeth or his mother's
headache.

But Harriet had known other types of men, and for his very
silences, for his indifference, for his loyalty to his own women,
she had begun to admire him long ago. She had not been born in
this atmosphere of pleasure and ease and riches; she was not
entirely unfitted to judge a man. There was not much to awaken
respect in the men she met at Crownlands, still less in the women.
She liked Ward for his artless boyishness; forgave Anthony Pope
much because he was straight and clean and self-respecting; but
there were plenty of other men, spoiled and selfish, weak and
stupid; men who amused and flattered Isabelle Carter perhaps, but
among whom her husband loomed a very giant. Harriet had watched
Richard Carter with a keenness of which she was hardly conscious
herself, ready to detect the flaw, the weakness in his character,
but she never found it, and after awhile she became his silent