ad done in Chicago, were worse than
useless; they were destructive. He must have a long talk with her one
of these days, must confess frankly to his passion for Berenice, and
appeal to her sympathy and good sense. What scenes would follow! Yet
she might succumb, at that. Despair, pride, disgust might move her.
Besides, he could now bestow upon her a very large fortune. She could
go to Europe or remain here and live in luxury. He would always remain
friendly with her--helpful, advisory--if she would permit it.

The conversation which eventually followed on this topic was of such
stuff as dreams are made of. It sounded hollow and unnatural within
the walls where it took place. Consider the great house in upper Fifth
Avenue, its magnificent chambers aglow, of a stormy Sunday night.
Cowperwood was lingering in the city at this time, busy with a group of
Eastern financiers who were influencing his contest in the state
legislature of Illinois. Aileen was momentarily consoled by the
thought that for him perhaps love might, after all, be a thing apart--a
thing no longer vital and soul-controlling. To-night he was sitting in
the court of orchids, reading a book--the diary of Cellini, which some
one had recommended to him--stopping to think now and then of things in
Chicago or Springfield, or to make a note. Outside the rain was
splashing in torrents on the electric-lighted asphalt of Fifth
Avenue--the Park opposite a Corot-like shadow. Aileen was in the
music-room strumming indifferently. She was thinking of times
past--Lynde, from whom she had not heard in half a year; Watson Skeet,
the sculptor, who was also out of her ken at present. When Cowperwood
was in the city and in the house she was accustomed from habit to
remain indoors or near. So great is the influence of past customs of
devotion that they linger long past the hour when the act ceases to
become valid.

"What an awful night!" she observed once, strolling to a window to peer
out from behind a brocaded valance.

"It is bad, isn't it?" replied Cowperwood, as she returned. "Hadn't
you thought of going anywhere this evening?"

"No--oh no," replied Aileen, indifferently. She rose restlessly from
the piano, and strolled on into the great picture-gallery. Stopping
before one of Raphael Sanzio's Holy Families, only recently hung, she
paused to contemplate the serene face--medieval, Madonnaesque, Italian.

The lady seemed fragile, colorless, spineless--wit