He continued to regard her with that lurking suggestion of amusement at the back of his eyes, and she was annoyed to feel herself flushing uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny.  At last he spoke again.

“You seem to have a faculty for intrusion,” he remarked drily.

Sara’s eyes flashed.

“And you, a fancy for solitude,” she retorted.

“Exactly.”  He bowed ironically.  “Perhaps you would oblige me by considering it?” And he drew politely aside as though to let her pass out in front of him.

Sara cast a dismayed glance at the rain, which was still descending in torrents.  Then she turned to him indignantly.

“Do you mean that you’re going to insist on my starting out in this storm?” she demanded.

“Don’t you know that you’ve no right to be here at all—­that you’re trespassing?” he parried coolly.

“Of course I know it!  But I didn’t expect that any one in the world would object to my trespassing in the circumstances!”

“You must not judge me by other people,” he replied composedly.  “I am not—­like them.”

“You’re not, indeed,” agreed Sara warmly.

“And your tone implies ‘thanks be,’” he supplemented with a faint smile.  “Oh, well,” he went on ungraciously, “stay if you like—­so long as you don’t expect me to stay with you.”

Sara hastily disclaimed any such desire, and, lifting his cap, he turned and strode away into the rain.

Another ten minutes crawled by, and still the rain came down as persistently as though it intended never to cease again.  Sara fidgeted, and walked across impatiently to the open front of the summer-house, staring up moodily at the heavy clouds.  They showed no signs of breaking, and she was just about to resume her weary waiting on the seat within the shelter, when quick steps sounded to her left, and Garth Trent reappeared, carrying an umbrella and with a man’s overcoat thrown over his arm.

“It’s going to rain for a good two hours yet,” he said abruptly.  “You’d better come up to the house.”

Sara gazed at him in silent amazement; the invitation was so totally unexpected that for the moment she had no answer ready.

“Unless,” he added sneeringly, misinterpreting her silence, “you’re afraid of the proprieties?”

“I’m far more afraid of taking cold,” she replied promptly, preparing to evacuate the summer-house.

“Here, put this on,” he said gruffly, holding out the coat he had brought with him.  “There’s no object in getting any wetter than you must.”

He helped her into the coat, buttoning it carefully under her chin, his dexterous movements and quiet solicitude contrasting curiously with the detachment of his manner whilst performing these small services.  He was so altogether business-like and unconcerned that Sara felt not unlike a child being dressed by a conscientious but entirely disinterested nurse.  When he had fastened the last button of the long coat, which came down to her heels, he unfurled the umbrella and held it over her.