He looked fresh, hard, even young, in his white flannels. They stood looking at each other for a moment without speaking.
"Where have you been?" said Richard, sharply, then. "You look ill!"
Tears, despite her desperate resolution, suddenly stung Harriet's eyes. And yet her heart leaped with hope.
"I wanted to see you, Mr. Carter," she faltered. "I couldn't sleep very well. I've been down at the shore. But later--any time will do!"
"You couldn't sleep!" he exclaimed with quick sympathy. He looked from her about him, as if for a shelter for her emotion. "Here," he said, "come down the steps a bit. I was just going down to the court for a little tennis; Ward may follow me, but he won't be dressed for half an hour yet. Sit down here; we can talk."
They had come to the marble bench on the terrace, where Isabelle and Anthony Pope, sheltered by these same towering trees and low brick walls, had had their talk a year ago. Harriet, to her own consternation, felt that she was in danger of tears.
"I--I hardly know how to say it," she began. "But--but you know how ashamed I am!"
"I know--I know how you feel!" Richard said with a sort of brief sympathy. "I'm sorry! But you know you mustn't take this all too hard. I didn't--I was thinking of this last night; I didn't ask you for--well, any more than you gave me, in this marriage of ours. Your divorce was your own affair--"
The girl's tired eyes flashed.
"There was no divorce!" she said, quickly.