ny troubles of any kind."

"Oh, it isn't anything you can do--not now, anyhow. My affairs! Oh
yes. What are they? Very simple, all."

She had that delicious atmosphere of remoteness even from herself. He
was enchanted.

"But you are not simple to me, Rita," he said, softly, "nor are your
affairs. They concern me very much. You are so important to me. I
have told you that. Don't you see how true it is? You are a strange
complexity to me--wonderful. I'm mad over you. Ever since I saw you
last I have been thinking, thinking. If you have troubles let me share
them. You are so much to me--my only trouble. I can fix your life.
Join it with mine. I need you, and you need me."

"Yes," she said, "I know." Then she paused. "It's nothing much," she
went on--"just a quarrel."

"What over?"

"Over me, really." The mouth was delicious. "I can't swing the censer
always, as you say." That thought of his had stuck. "It's all right
now, though. Isn't the day lovely, be-yoot-i-ful!"

Cowperwood looked at her and shook his head. She was such a
treasure--so inconsequential. Aileen, busy driving and talking, could
not see or hear. She was interested in Sohlberg, and the southward
crush of vehicles on Michigan Avenue was distracting her attention. As
they drove swiftly past budding trees, kempt lawns, fresh-made
flower-beds, open windows--the whole seductive world of
spring--Cowperwood felt as though life had once more taken a fresh
start. His magnetism, if it had been visible, would have enveloped him
like a glittering aura. Mrs. Sohlberg felt that this was going to be a
wonderful evening.

The dinner was at the Park--an open-air chicken a la Maryland affair,
with waffles and champagne to help out. Aileen, flattered by
Sohlberg's gaiety under her spell, was having a delightful time,
jesting, toasting, laughing, walking on the grass. Sohlberg was making
love to her in a foolish, inconsequential way, as many men were
inclined to do; but she was putting him off gaily with "silly boy" and
"hush." She was so sure of herself that she was free to tell Cowperwood
afterward how emotional he was and how she had to laugh at him.
Cowperwood, quite certain that she was faithful, took it all in good
part. Sohlberg was such a dunce and such a happy convenience ready to
his hand. "He's not a bad sort," he commented. "I rather like him,
though I don't think he's so much of a violinist."

After dinner they drove along the