Frances did not hear the end of the sentence for she was following Bess up the narrow, winding stone stairs to emerge in a little room with slanting caves and dormer windows in its thatched roof. The place was bare but spotlessly clean and through the open western casement shimmered the blue sea.
"Sit down, Miss," said Bess in a soft voice with curious musical intonations that made up for imperfect pronunciation.
With a sigh of relief, Frances sank into the straight chair. The reaction from her late adventure was still upon her. Before she knew what was happening, Bess approached with a basin of water and a towel, and knelt to unfasten the soaked shoes.
"Oh, I can do that for myself," Frances protested with the independence of an American girl.
"Sit ye still, Miss," said Bess pleasantly. "'Tis bad for the nerves to race the tides. It shakes one a good bit."
Her deft fingers made short work of their task. Presently, Frances was comfortable in white cotton stockings and black slippers far too large and wide.
"Twill serve," said Bess, smiling at the way they slid around on Fran's slender feet. "Dry at least. Now come ye down and drink your tea. 'Tis not lately we've seen Mr. Max. Mother'll be rarely pleased."
Frances had it on her tongue's end to inquire into the identity of her rescuer, but the difficulty of keeping on those heavy leather shoes with their big silver buckles distracted her attention. She came carefully down the stair to find Mr. Max seated on the big black oak settle, his hat and riding-crop beside him and Mrs. Trott arranging her table before the fire.
"Come, Miss, to your tea," she exclaimed. "Bess, fetch the cream."
Frances tried to protest, feeling already under great obligations to these total strangers, but Mr. Max promptly rose to give her a seat.