"Oh, pretty--pretty!" Harriet said, seeing it.

"Isn't it ducky? Anthony Pope just sent it to me--the dear boy. I
don't know where he picks things up, or how he knows what's
right." Mrs. Carter half-closed the fan, and laid it against her
bare shoulder, and looked at it with tipped head and half-closed
eyes.

"Did you see What's-His-Name?" she asked.

Harriet understood the allusion to the new chef.

"I've just been down there," she said. "Everything seems to be all
right, and looks delicious!"

"That's nice of you, Harriet," Isabelle said. The kitchen was not
strictly Harriet's responsibility, but Mrs. Carter had been making
changes there of late, and the girl's interest and interference
were invaluable. She laid down the fan, and pushed a silver case
toward her secretary, at the same time helping herself to a
cigarette. But Harriet shook her head.

"You're very clever, you know," Isabelle smiled, through a cloud
of pale smoke. "You're always in character, Harriet!"

Harriet smiled her inscrutable smile; there was just the
suggestion of a shrug. She had her own cigarette-case, and not
infrequently used it in Isabelle's presence. But at this hour,
when Richard or Ward or Nina, or even Madame Carter, might come