"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.
"You'd rather have a bad cold ?" he suggested.
"Ever so much rather!" retorted Sara hardily.
He gave a short laugh, almost as though he could not help himself, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned and marched out of the room.
Left alone, Sara glanced about her in some surprise at the evidences of a cultivated taste and love of beauty which the room supplied.

It was not quite the sort of abode she would have associated with the grim, misanthropic type of man she judged her host to be.
The old-fashioned note, struck by the huge oaken beams supporting the ceiling and by the open hearth, had been retained throughout, and every detail--the blue willow-pattern china on the old oak dresser, the dimly lustrous pewter perched upon the chimney-piece, the silver candle-sconces thrusting out curved, gleaming arms from the paneled walls--was exquisite of its kind.

It reminded her of the old hall at Barrow, where she and Patrick had been wont to sit and yarn together on winter evenings.
The place had a well-tended air, too, and Sara, who waged daily war against the slovenly shabbiness prevalent at Sunnyside, was all at once sensible of how desperately she had missed the quiet perfection of the service at Barrow.

The nostalgia for her old home--the unquenchable, homesick longing for the _place_ that has held one's happiness--rushed over her in a overwhelming flood.
Wishing she had never come to this house, which had so stirred old memories, she got up restlessly, driven by a sudden impulse to escape, just as the door opened to re-admit Garth Trent.
He gave her a swift, searching glance.
"Sit down again," he commanded.

"There"-- gravely depositing a towel and a pair of men's woolen socks on the floor beside her--"dry your feet and put those socks on." He moved quickly away towards the window and remained there, with his back turned studiously towards her, while she obeyed his instructions.
When she had hung two very damp black silk stockings on the fire-dogs to dry, she flung a somewhat irritated glance at him over her shoulder.
"You can come back," she said in a small voice.
He came, and stood staring down at the two woolly socks protruding from beneath the short, tweed skirt.