d her
love and her position in general. What did she care, she asked
herself, what her father thought now? She was in this thing. She loved
Cowperwood; she was permanently disgraced in her father's eyes. What
difference could it all make now? He had fallen so low in his parental
feeling as to spy on her and expose her before other men--strangers,
detectives, Cowperwood. What real affection could she have for him after
this? He had made a mistake, according to her. He had done a foolish and
a contemptible thing, which was not warranted however bad her actions
might have been. What could he hope to accomplish by rushing in on her
in this way and ripping the veil from her very soul before these other
men--these crude detectives? Oh, the agony of that walk from the
bedroom to the reception-room! She would never forgive her father for
this--never, never, never! He had now killed her love for him--that was
what she felt. It was to be a battle royal between them from now on.
As they rode--in complete silence for a while--her hands clasped
and unclasped defiantly, her nails cutting her palms, and her mouth
hardened.

It is an open question whether raw opposition ever accomplishes anything
of value in this world. It seems so inherent in this mortal scheme of
things that it appears to have a vast validity. It is more than likely
that we owe this spectacle called life to it, and that this can be
demonstrated scientifically; but when that is said and done, what is the
value? What is the value of the spectacle? And what the value of a scene
such as this enacted between Aileen and her father?

The old man saw nothing for it, as they rode on, save a grim contest
between them which could end in what? What could he do with her? They
were riding away fresh from this awful catastrophe, and she was not
saying a word! She had even asked him why he had come there! How was he
to subdue her, when the very act of trapping her had failed to do
so? His ruse, while so successful materially, had failed so utterly
spiritually. They reached the house, and Aileen got out. The old man,
too nonplussed to wish to go further at this time, drove back to his
office. He then went out and walked--a peculiar thing for him to do; he
had done nothing like that in years and years--walking to think. Coming
to an open Catholic church, he went in and prayed for enlightenment,
the growing dusk of the interior, the single everlasting lamp before the
repository of th