It was shaped like a great overhanging hood, out of which, crudely suggested by the configuration of the rock, peered a diabolical face, weather-worn to the smoothness of polished marble.

April was still doing her best to please, with blue skies and soft fragrant airs, when Garth gave a final push-off to the Betsy Anne, and bent to his oars as she skimmed out over the top of the waves with her nose towards Devil’s Hood Island.

Sara, comfortably ensconced amid a nest of cushions in the stern of the boat, pointed to a square-shaped basket of quite considerable dimensions, tucked away beneath one of the seats.

“What’s that?” she asked curiously.

Trent’s eyes followed the direction of her glance.

“That?  Oh, that’s our tea.  You didn’t imagine I was going to starve you, did you?  I think we shall find that Mrs. Judson has provided all we want.”

Sara laughed across at him.

“What a thoughtful man you are!” she said gaily.  “Fancy a hermit remembering a woman’s crucial need of tea.”

“Don’t credit me with too much self-effacement!” he grinned.  “I enjoyed the last occasion when you were my guest, so I’m repeating the prescription.”

“Still, even deducting for the selfish motive, you’re progressing,” she answered.  “I see you developing into quite an ornament to society in course of time.”

“God forbid!” he ejaculated piously.

Sara looked entertained.

“Apparently your ambitions don’t lie in that direction?” she rallied him.

“There is no question of such a catastrophe occurring.  I’ve told you that society—­as such—­and I have finished with each other.”

His face clouded over, and for a while he sculled in silence, driving the Betsy Anne through the blue water with strong, steady strokes.

Sara was vividly conscious of the suggestion of supple strength conveyed by the rippling play of muscle beneath the white skin of his arms, bared to the elbow, and by the pliant swing of his body to each sure, rhythmical stroke.

She recollected that one of her earliest impressions concerning him had been of the sheer force of the man—­the lithe, flexible strength like that of tempered steel—­and she wondered whether this were entirely due to his magnificent physique or owed its impulse, in part, to some mental quality in him.  Her eyes travelled reflectively to the lean, square-jawed face, with its sensitive, bitter-looking mouth and its fine modeling of brow and temple, as though seeking there the answer to her questionings, and with a sudden, intuitive instinct of reliance, she felt that behind all his cynicism and surface hardness, there lay a quiet, sure strength of soul that would not fail whoever trusted it.

Yet he always spoke as though in some way his life had been a failure—­as though he had met, and been defeated, by a shrewd blow of fate.