She changed from her afternoon dress slowly. As she did so, she brought swiftly in review the events of the day. Chiefly it was to the polo practice and to Eaton's dismay at his one remarkable stroke that her mind went. Had Donald Avery seen something in that which was not plain to herself?
Harriet Santoine knew polo from watching many games, but she was aware that—as with any one who knows a game merely as a spectator—she was unacquainted with many of the finer points of play. Donald had played almost since a boy, he was a good, steady, though not a brilliant player. Had Donald recognized in Eaton something more than merely a good player trying to pretend ignorance of the game? The thought suddenly checked and startled her. For how many great polo players were there in America? Were there a hundred? Fifty? Twenty-five? She did not know; but she did know that there were so few of them that their names and many of the particulars of their lives were known to every follower of the sport.
She halted suddenly in her dressing, perplexed and troubled. Her father had sent Eaton to the country club with Avery; there Avery, plainly, had forced Eaton into the polo game. By her father's instructions? Clearly there seemed to have been purpose in what had been done, and purpose which had not been confided to herself either by her father or Avery. For how could they have suspected that Eaton would betray himself in the game unless they had also suspected that he had played polo before? To suspect that, they must at least have some theory as to who Eaton was. But her father had no such theory; he had been expending unavailingly, so far, every effort to ascertain Eaton's connections. So her thoughts led her only into deeper and greater perplexity, but with them came sudden—and unaccountable—resentment against Avery.
"Will you see what Mr. Avery is doing?" she said to the maid.
The girl went out and returned in a few moments. "He is with Mr. Santoine."
"Thank you."
At seven Harriet went in to dinner with her father. The blind man was now alone; he had been awaiting her, and they were served at once. All through the dinner she was nervous and moody; for she knew she was going to do something she had never done before: she was going to conceal something from her father. She told herself it was not really concealment, for Donald must have already told him. It was no more, then, than that she herself would not inform upon Eaton, but would leave that to Avery. So she told of Eaton's reception at the country club, and of his taking part in the polo practice and playing badly; but of her own impression that Eaton knew the game and her present conviction that Donald Avery had seen even more than that, she said nothing. She watched her father's face, but she could see there no consciousness that she was omitting anything in her account.
An hour later, when after reading aloud to him for a time, he dismissed her, she hesitated before going.
"You've seen Donald?" she asked.
"Yes."