Always acutely sensible of temperament, Sara felt as though the man beside her might be capable of any extreme of action.  Whatever decision he might adopt over any given matter, he would hold by it, come what may, and she was aware of an odd reflex consciousness of feminine inadequacy.  To influence Garth Trent against his convictions would be like trying to deflect the course of a river by laying a straw across its track.

The primitive woman in her thrilled a little, responsively, and she wondered whether or no her sex had played much part in his life.  He was a woman-hater—­so Molly had told her—­yet Sara could imagine him in a very different role.  Of one thing she was sure—­that the woman who was loved by Garth Trent would anchor in no placid back-water.  Life, for her, would hold something breathless, vital, exultant . . .

“Well, have you decided yet?”

The ironical voice broke sharply into the midst of her fugitive thoughts, and Sara jumped violently, flushing scarlet as she found Trent’s eyes surveying her with a quietly quizzical expression.

“Decided what?” she asked defensively.

“Where to place me—­whether among the sheep or the goats.  You were dissecting my character, weren’t you?”

He waited for an answer, but Sara maintained an embarrassed silence.  He had divined the subject of her thoughts too nearly.

He laughed.

“The decision has gone against me, I see.  Well, I’m not surprised.  I’ve certainly treated you with a rather rough-and-ready kind of courtesy.  You must try to pardon me.  A hermit gets little practice at entertaining angels unawares.”

Sara, recovering her composure, regarded him placidly.

“You might find many opportunities for practice in Monkshaven,” she suggested.

“In Monkshaven?  Are you trying to suggest that I should ingratiate myself with the leading lights of local society?”

She nodded.

“Why not?”

He laughed as though genuinely amused.

“Perhaps you’ve not been here long enough yet to discover that the amiable inhabitants of Monkshaven look upon me as a sort of cross between a madman and a criminal who has eluded justice.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Oh, mine, I suppose”—­quickly.  “But it doesn’t matter—­since I regard them as a set of harmless, conventional fools.  No, thank you, I’ve no intention of making friends with the people of Monkshaven.”

“They’re not all conventional.  Some of them are rather interesting—­Mrs. Maynard, for instance, and the Herricks.”

He gave her a keen glance.

“Do you know the Herricks?”

“Yes.  Why don’t you go to see them sometimes?  Miles—­”

“Oh, Miles Herrick’s all right.  I know that,” he interrupted.

“It’s very bad for you to cut yourself off from the rest of the world, as you do,” persisted Sara sagely.