Wishing she had never come to this house, which had so stirred old memories, she got up restlessly, driven by a sudden impulse to escape, just as the door opened to re-admit Garth Trent.

He gave her a swift, searching glance.

“Sit down again,” he commanded.  “There”—­gravely depositing a towel and a pair of men’s woolen socks on the floor beside her—­“dry your feet and put those socks on.”

He moved quickly away towards the window and remained there, with his back turned studiously towards her, while she obeyed his instructions.  When she had hung two very damp black silk stockings on the fire-dogs to dry, she flung a somewhat irritated glance at him over her shoulder.

“You can come back,” she said in a small voice.

He came, and stood staring down at the two woolly socks protruding from beneath the short, tweed skirt.  The suspicion of a smile curved his lips.

“They’re several sizes too large,” he observed.  “Odd creatures you women are,” he went on suddenly, after a brief silence.  “You shy wildly at the idea of letting a man see the foot God gave you, but you’ve no scruples at all about letting any one see the selfishness that the devil’s put into your hearts.”

He spoke with a kind of savage contempt; it was as though the speech were tinged with some bitter personal memory.

Sara’s eyes surveyed him calmly.

“I’ve no intention of making an exhibit of my heart,” she observed mildly.

“It’s wiser not, probably,” he retorted disagreeably, and at that moment Judson came into the room and began to arrange the tea-table beside his master’s chair.

“Put it over there,” directed Trent sharply, indicating with a gesture that the table should be placed near his guest, and Judson, his face manifesting rather more surprise than is compatible with the wooden mask demanded of the well-trained servant, hastened to comply.

When he had readjusted the position of the tea-table, he moved quietly about the room, drawing the curtains and lighting the candles in their silver sconces, so that little pools of yellow light splashed down on to the smooth surface of the oak floor—­waxed and polished till it gleamed like black ivory.

As he withdrew unobtrusively towards the door, Trent tossed him a further order.

“I shall want the car round in a couple of hours—­at six,” he said, and smiled straight into Sara’s startled eyes.

CHAPTER IX

THE HERMIT’S SHELL

Sara paused with the sugar-tongs poised above the Queen Anne bowl.

“Sugar?” she queried.

Trent regarded her seriously.

“One lump, please.”

She handed him his cup and poured out another for herself.  Then she said lightly: 

“I heard you order your car.  Is this quite a suitable afternoon for joy-riding?”