t happened that Miss Vanhorn saw Anne re-enter with the same
escort who had taken her forth.

Another week passed, and another. Various scenes in the little dramas
played by the different persons present followed each other with more or
less notice, more or less success. One side of Dexter's nature was
completely fascinated with Rachel Bannert--with her beauty, which a
saint-worshipper would have denied, although why saintliness should be a
matter of blonde hair remains undiscovered; with her dress and grace of
manner; with her undoubted position in that narrow circle which he
wished to enter even while condemning--perhaps merely to conquer it and
turn away again. His rival with Rachel was Heathcote; he had discovered
that. He was conscious that he detested Heathcote. While thus secretly
interested in Rachel, he yet found time, however, to give a portion of
each day to Anne; he did this partly from policy and partly from jealous
annoyance. For here too he found the other man. Heathcote, in truth,
seemed to be amusing himself in much the same way. If Dexter waltzed
with Rachel, Heathcote offered his arm to Anne and took her out on the
piazza; if Dexter walked with Anne there, Heathcote took Rachel into the
rose-scented dusky garden. But Dexter had Miss Vanhorn's favor, if that
was anything. She went to drive with him and took Anne; she allowed him
to accompany them on their botanizing expeditions; she talked to him,
and even listened to his descriptions of his life and adventures. In
reality she cared no more for him than for a Choctaw; no more for his
life than for that of Robinson Crusoe. But he was a rich man, and he
would do for Anne, who was not a Vanhorn, but merely a Douglas. He had
showed some liking for the girl; the affair should be encouraged and
clinched. She, Katharine Vanhorn, would clinch it. He must be a very
different man from the diagnosis she had made up of him if he did not
yield to her clinching.

During these weeks, therefore, there had been many long conversations
between Anne and Mr. Dexter; they had talked on many subjects
appropriate to the occasion--Dexter was always appropriate. He had
quoted pages of poetry, and he quoted well. He had, like Othello,
related his adventures, and they were thrilling and true. Then, when
more sure of her, he had turned the conversation upon herself. It is a
fascinating subject--one's self! Anne touched it timidly here and there,
but, never having had the habit o