her if he could. He found her up and
dressing, a new thought and determination in her mind. Since she had
thrown herself on the bed sobbing and groaning, her mood had gradually
changed; she began to reason that if she could not dominate him, could
not make him properly sorry, she had better leave. It was evident, she
thought, that he did not love her any more, seeing that his anxiety to
protect Rita had been so great; his brutality in restraining her so
marked; and yet she did not want to believe that this was so. He had
been so wonderful to her in times past. She had not given up all hope
of winning a victory over him, and these other women--she loved him too
much--but only a separation would do it. That might bring him to his
senses. She would get up, dress, and go down-town to a hotel. He
should not see her any more unless he followed her. She was satisfied
that she had broken up the liaison with Rita Sohlberg, anyway for the
present, and as for Antoinette Nowak, she would attend to her later.
Her brain and her heart ached. She was so full of woe and rage,
alternating, that she could not cry any more now. She stood before her
mirror trying with trembling fingers to do over her toilet and adjust a
street-costume. Cowperwood was disturbed, nonplussed at this
unexpected sight.

"Aileen," he said, finally, coming up behind her, "can't you and I talk
this thing over peacefully now? You don't want to do anything that
you'll be sorry for. I don't want you to. I'm sorry. You don't
really believe that I've ceased to love you, do you? I haven't, you
know. This thing isn't as bad as it looks. I should think you would
have a little more sympathy with me after all we have been through
together. You haven't any real evidence of wrong-doing on which to
base any such outburst as this."

"Oh, haven't I?" she exclaimed, turning from the mirror, where,
sorrowfully and bitterly, she was smoothing her red-gold hair. Her
cheeks were flushed, her eyes red. Just now she seemed as remarkable
to him as she had seemed that first day, years ago, when in a red cape
he had seen her, a girl of sixteen, running up the steps of her
father's house in Philadelphia. She was so wonderful then. It
mellowed his mood toward her.

"That's all you know about it, you liar!" she declared. "It's little
you know what I know. I haven't had detectives on your trail for weeks
for nothing. You sneak! You'd like to smooth around now and find