"Since when?" asked the sweet voice, with a touch of sarcasm. Anne was now using the powers of concealment which nature gives to all women, even the youngest, as a defense. Mr. Dexter should know nothing, should not be vouchsafed even a glimpse, of her inner feelings; she would simply refuse him, as girls did in books. And she tried to think what they said. But the man opposite her was not like a man in a book. "Since six o'clock this evening," he answered, quietly. Anne looked at him in wonder. "Do you wish to hear the whole?" he asked. "No; it is nothing to me. Since you only began at six, probably you can stop at twelve," she answered, still with her girlish scorn perceptible in her voice. But Dexter paid no attention to her sarcasm. "I will tell you the whole when you are my wife," he said. "Let it suffice now that at the hour named I became aware of the worthlessness and faithlessness of women; and--I speak God's truth, Anne--even at that bitter moment I fell back upon the thought of _you_ as a safeguard--a safeguard against total disbelief in the possibility of woman's fidelity. I knew then that I had revered you with my better self all the while--that, young as you are, I had believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my wife; and from this instant I will devote all the love in me--and I have more than you think--to you alone." He had crossed the room, and was standing beside her. Anne felt at once the touch of real feeling. "I am very sorry," she said, gently, looking up into his face. "I should have said it at first, but that I did not think you were in earnest until now. I am engaged, Mr. Dexter; I was engaged before I came here." "But," said Dexter, "Miss Vanhorn--" "Yes, I know. Grandaunt does not approve of it, and will not countenance it. But that, of course, makes no difference." He looked at her, puzzled by her manner. In truth, poor Anne, while immovably determined to keep her promise to Rast, even cherishing the purpose, also, of hastening the marriage if he wished it, was yet so inefficient an actress that she trembled as she spoke, and returned his gaze through a mist of tears. "You _wish_ to marry this man, I suppose--I am ignorant of his name?" he asked, watching her with attention. "His name is Erastus Pronando; we were children together on the island," she answered, in a low voice, with downcast eyes. "And you wish to marry him?" "I do." Gregory Dexter put another disappointment down upon the tablets of his memory--a disappointment and a surprise; he had not once doubted his success. In this certainty he had been deceived partly by Miss Vanhorn, and partly by Anne herself; by her unstudied frankness. He knew that she liked him, but he had mistaken the nature of her regard. He could always control himself, however, and he now turned to her kindly. He thought she was afraid of her aunt. "Sit down for a few minutes more," he said, "and tell me about it. Why does Miss Vanhorn disapprove?"