necessitated his calling at the Butlers' quite frequently, and
on each occasion he saw Aileen. She managed to slip forward and squeeze
his hand the first time he came--to steal a quick, vivid kiss; and
another time, as he was going out, she suddenly appeared from behind the
curtains hanging at the parlor door.

"Honey!"

The voice was soft and coaxing. He turned, giving her a warning nod in
the direction of her father's room upstairs.

She stood there, holding out one hand, and he stepped forward for a
second. Instantly her arms were about his neck, as he slipped his about
her waist.

"I long to see you so."

"I, too. I'll fix some way. I'm thinking."

He released her arms, and went out, and she ran to the window and looked
out after him. He was walking west on the street, for his house was only
a few blocks away, and she looked at the breadth of his shoulders, the
balance of his form. He stepped so briskly, so incisively. Ah, this was
a man! He was her Frank. She thought of him in that light already. Then
she sat down at the piano and played pensively until dinner.

And it was so easy for the resourceful mind of Frank Cowperwood, wealthy
as he was, to suggest ways and means. In his younger gallivantings about
places of ill repute, and his subsequent occasional variations from the
straight and narrow path, he had learned much of the curious resources
of immorality. Being a city of five hundred thousand and more at this
time, Philadelphia had its nondescript hotels, where one might go,
cautiously and fairly protected from observation; and there were houses
of a conservative, residential character, where appointments might be
made, for a consideration. And as for safeguards against the production
of new life--they were not mysteries to him any longer. He knew all
about them. Care was the point of caution. He had to be cautious, for
he was so rapidly coming to be an influential and a distinguished man.
Aileen, of course, was not conscious, except in a vague way, of the
drift of her passion; the ultimate destiny to which this affection might
lead was not clear to her. Her craving was for love--to be fondled and
caressed--and she really did not think so much further. Further thoughts
along this line were like rats that showed their heads out of dark holes
in shadowy corners and scuttled back at the least sound. And, anyhow,
all that was to be connected with Cowperwood would be beautiful. She
really did not think that