Meriweather had offered to take her to the train, but she had said: "No, you wouldn't be interested in the things we'd have to talk about. I shall have a thousand questions for Crispin."
In spite of her refusal, however, he found himself upheld by the hope of what would happen when she saw Harlowe among her new friends. The house was full of people, the pick of Carew's acquaintances. Was it likely that side by side with these the young god would still shine?
Meriweather was not a snob, but he knew the world, and he knew women. Hildegarde had adapted herself amazingly to her new surroundings. People were saying charming things to her. As Miss Anne had prophesied, there had been great curiosity about Louis Carew's daughter. Everybody wanted to see the child of Elizabeth Musgrove who had left her husband and had gone out into a silence which had never been broken. And here was the girl, with her mother's slim grace, plus the Carew eyes and the crown of smoky curls. They made much of her.
"But they can't spoil her," Miss Anne had said to Meriweather: "she's true to the Carew tradition."
And there you had it. Back of her was the blood! But this Harlowe chap? No background apparently. Son of a country lawyer. Educated in a country college. Those things were all right, of course. But here, in the home of her forefathers, Hildegarde must see the difference.
Sally was saying: "Let's go to the Point and have tea. I haven't been there for ages, and no one will care if we don't get back."
