ghted knew better. Dexter was one of these, and this
entire absence of self-assertion in Ward Heathcote stung him. For Dexter
always asserted himself; he could not help it. He came in at this
moment, and noted Heathcote's position near Anne. Obeying an impulse, he
crossed the room immediately, and began a counter-conversation with Miss
Vanhorn, the chaperon.

"Trying to interest that child," he thought, as he listened to the
grandaunt with the air of deferential attention she liked so well. With
eyes that apparently never once glanced in their direction, he kept
close watch of the two beyond. "She is no match for him," he thought,
with indignation; "she has had no experience. It ought not to be
allowed."

But Dexter always mistook Heathcote; he gave him credit for plans and
theories of which Heathcote never dreamed. In fact, he judged him by
himself. Heathcote was merely talking to Anne now in the absence of
other entertainment, having felt some slight curiosity about her because
she had looked so bright and contented on the mud-bank under the bridge.
He tried to recall his impression of her on New-Year's Day, and
determined to refresh his memory by Blum; but, in the mean time,
outwardly, his manner was as though, silently of course, but none the
less deeply, he had dwelt upon her image ever since. It was this
impalpable manner which made Dexter indignant. He knew it so well! He
said to himself that it was a lie. And, generally speaking, it was. But
possibly in this case (as in others) it was not so much the falsity of
the manner as its success which annoyed the other man.

He could not hear what was said; and the words, in truth, were not many
or brilliant. But he knew the sort of quiet glance with which they were
being accompanied. Yet Dexter, quick and suspicious as he was, would
never have discovered that glance unaided. He had learned it from
another, and that other, of course, a woman. For once in a while it
happens that a woman, when roused to fury, will pour out the whole story
of her wrongs to some man who happens to be near. No man does this. He
has not the same need of expression; and, besides, he will never show
himself at such a disadvantage voluntarily, even for the sake of
comfort. He would rather remain uncomforted. But women of strong
feelings often, when excited, cast wisdom to the winds, and even seem to
find a desperate satisfaction in the most hazardous imprudences, which
can injure only themselv