"The countess!" snapped Harriet.
Horatio felt her shrug of aversion at the mention of Kate Clendennin's name. He knew what Harriet was thinking, knew what she would say if she spoke. Kate had something no woman of forty-nine can forgive: she had youth. Kate had other things equally unforgivable, things that went with youth and satin slippers, and a title—a title after all is a title even if it is only a German title, and Harriet classed German titles in a vague category with German silver, German measles, cousins German, and—Germans!
"They're coming now," said Horatio, interrupting her thoughts.
"What? Who?"
"The satin slippers," he repeated in a stage whisper and pointed upward. His choice of words moved even Harriet to reluctant mirth, for the countess had put on heavy walking boots, and the sound of them now descending the uncarpeted oak stairs was anything but satin.
Kate Clendennin paused a moment in her downward flight to exchange the usual morning insincerities. She was a splendid specimen of British young womanhood, with her dark, well-behaved hair and gray-green eyes, capitally set off by a gray tweed walking suit. Harriet regarded her resentfully. What right had Kate to the complexion of an early riser when she always breakfasted in bed, and to the figure of Artemis when she never set foot to the ground if there were a horse or an automobile in sight?
"Ah! I hope you slept well," said Mrs. Merle.
The countess smothered a yawn with a tan glove. "I really don't know; I'm not awake yet." She was thinking, "What an odd little couple they are, these two, this pink-and-white cockatoo lady in the faded purple morning gown, and this little gray mouse in the black velvet coat."
"Is Mr. Fitz Brown down yet?" they heard her call to Parker a moment later, as she disappeared into the breakfast room. "Tell Anton we shall want the motor."
"It's perfectly shameful the way those two abuse dear Cousin Hiram's kindness," grumbled Harriet. "They've had the car every day this week."