es. In a mood of this kind, some one had poured
out to Gregory Dexter bitter testimony against Heathcote, one-sided,
perhaps, but photographically accurate in all the details, which are so
much to women. Dexter had listened with inward anger and contempt; but
he had listened. And he had recognized, besides, the accent of truth in
every word. The narrator was now in Austria with a new and foreign
husband, apparently as happy as the day is long. But the listener had
never forgotten or forgiven her account of Heathcote's method and
manner. He said to himself that he despised it, and he did despise it.
Still, in some occult way, one may be jealous of results attained even
by ways and means for which one feels a righteous contempt; and the more
so when one has a firm confidence in his own abilities, which have not
yet, however, been openly recognized in that field. In all other fields
Gregory Dexter was a marked type of American success.

As the days moved slowly on, he kept watch of Heathcote. It was more a
determination to foil him than interest in Anne which made him add
himself as a third whenever he could unobtrusively; which was not often,
since Miss Vanhorn liked to talk to him herself, and Anne knew no more
how to aid him than a nun. After a while Heathcote became conscious of
this watchfulness, and it amused him. His idea of Dexter was "a clever
sort of fellow, who has made money, and is ambitious. Goes in for
politics, and that sort of thing. Talks well, but too much. Tiresome."
He began to devote himself to Anne now in a different way; hitherto he
had been only entertaining himself (and rather languidly) by a study of
her fresh naive truthfulness. He had drawn out her history; he, too,
knew of the island, the fort, and the dog trains. Poor Anne was always
eloquent on these subjects. Her color rose, her words came quickly.

"You are fond of the island," he said, one evening, as they sat on the
piazza in the moonlight, Dexter within three feet of them, but unable to
hear their murmured words. For Heathcote had a way of interposing his
shoulder between listeners and the person to whom he was talking, which
made the breadth of woollen cloth as much a barrier as a stone wall; he
did this more frequently now that he had discovered Dexter's
watchfulness.

"Yes," said Anne, in as low a voice as his own. Then suddenly, plainly
visible to him in the moonlight, tears welled up and dropped upon her
cheeks.

She had been h