Here Trent relieved her of the coat, and while she stood warming her feet at the huge log-fire, blazing half-way up the chimney, he rang for his servant and issued orders for tea to be brought, as composedly as though visitors of the feminine persuasion were a matter of everyday occurrence.
Sara, catching a glimpse of Judson's almost petrified face of astonishment as he retreated to carry out his master's instructions, and with a vivid recollection of her last encounter with him, almost laughed out loud.
“Please sit down,” said Trent. “And”—with a glance towards her feet—“you had better take off those wet shoes.”
There was something in his curt manner of giving orders—rather as though he were a drill-sergeant, Sara reflected—that aroused her to opposition. She held out her feet towards the blaze of the fire.
“No, thank you,” she replied airily. “They'll dry like this.”
As she spoke, she glanced up and encountered a sudden flash in his eyes like the keen flicker of a sword-blade. Without vouchsafing any answer, he knelt down beside her and began to unlace her shoes, finally drawing them off and laying them sole upwards, in front of the fire to dry. Then he passed his hand lightly over her stockinged feet.
“Wringing wet!” he remarked curtly. “Those silk absurdities must come off as well.”
Sara sprang up.
“No!” she said firmly. “They shall not!”
He looked at her, again with that glint of mocking amusement with which he had first greeted her presence in his summer-house.