den of realising some of them; they all
seemed to relate in objectionable degree to his perfectionation. So he
said gloomily, "She was very good. And I was to blame."

"Oh yes!" said Miss Anderson, catching her breath in a queer way; "she
seyved you right."

She rose abruptly, as if she heard her aunt speak, and Dan perceived
that he had been making a long call.

He went away dazed and dissatisfied; he knew now that he ought not to
have told Miss Anderson about his affair, unless he meant more by his
confidence than he really did--unless he meant to follow it up.

He took leave of her, and asked her to make his adieux to her aunt; but
the next day he came down to the boat to see them off. It seemed to him
that their interview had ended too hastily; he felt sore and restless
over it; he hoped that something more conclusive might happen. But at
the boat Miss Anderson and her aunt were inseparable. Miss Van Hook said
she hoped they should soon see him at the Hygeia, and he replied that he
was not sure that he should be able to come after all.

Miss Anderson called something after him as he turned from them to go
ashore. He ran back eagerly to know what it was. "Better lookout for
that Mr. Lafflin of yours," she repeated.

"Oh! oh yes," he said, indefinitely disappointed. "I shall keep a sharp
eye on him." He was disappointed, but he could not have said what he had
hoped or expected her to say. He was humbled before himself for having
told Miss Anderson about his affair with Alice, and had wished she would
say something that he might scramble back to his self-esteem upon. He
had told her all that partly from mere weakness, from his longing for
the sympathy which he was always so ready to give, and partly from the
willingness to pose before her as a broken heart, to dazzle her by the
irony and persiflage with which he could treat such a tragical matter;
but he could not feel that he had succeeded. The sum of her comment had
been that Alice had served him right. He did not know whether she really
believed that or merely said it to punish him for some reason; but he
could never let it be the last word. He tingled as he turned to wave
his handkerchief to her on the boat, with the suspicion that she was
laughing at him; and he could not console himself with any hero of
a novel who had got himself into just such a box. There were always
circumstances, incidents, mitigations, that kept the hero still a hero,
and ennobled the