ternoon were a dream, and nothing more.

Trent sat silently beside her, his attention apparently concentrated on
the driving of the car. Once he asked her if she were warm enough, and,
upon her replying in the affirmative, lapsed again into silence.

Gaining security from his abstraction, Sara ventured to steal a
side-glance at his face. It was a curiously contradictory face, hard
and bitter-looking, yet the reckless mouth curved sensitively at the
corners, and the tolerant, humorous lines about the eyes seemed to
combat the impression of almost brutal force conveyed by the frowning
brows and square, dominant chin.

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