ent, the result the same.
This girl, to furnish only a brief impression, was a blonde of a
different type from Cecily--delicate, picturesque, dreamy. She was
mildly intellectual at this time, engaged in reading Marlowe and
Jonson; and Cowperwood, busy in the matter of the West Chicago Street
Railway, and conferring with her father, was conceived by her as a
great personage of the Elizabethan order. In a tentative way she was in
revolt against an apple-pie order of existence which was being forced
upon her. Cowperwood recognized the mood, trifled with her spiritedly,
looked into her eyes, and found the response he wanted. Neither old
Aymar Cochrane nor his impeccably respectable wife ever discovered.

Subsequently Aileen, reflecting upon these latest developments, was
from one point of view actually pleased or eased. There is always
safety in numbers, and she felt that if Cowperwood were going to go on
like this it would not be possible for him in the long run to take a
definite interest in any one; and so, all things considered, and other
things being equal, he would probably just as leave remain married to
her as not.

But what a comment, she could not help reflecting, on her own charms!
What an end to an ideal union that had seemed destined to last all
their days! She, Aileen Butler, who in her youth had deemed herself the
peer of any girl in charm, force, beauty, to be shoved aside thus early
in her life--she was only forty--by the younger generation. And such
silly snips as they were--Stephanie Platow! and Cecily Haguenin! and
Florence Cochrane, in all likelihood another pasty-faced beginner! And
here she was--vigorous, resplendent, smooth of face and body, her
forehead, chin, neck, eyes without a wrinkle, her hair a rich golden
reddish glow, her step springing, her weight no more than one hundred
and fifty pounds for her very normal height, with all the advantages of
a complete toilet cabinet, jewels, clothing, taste, and skill in
material selection--being elbowed out by these upstarts. It was almost
unbelievable. It was so unfair. Life was so cruel, Cowperwood so
temperamentally unbalanced. Dear God! to think that this should be
true! Why should he not love her? She studied her beauty in the mirror
from time to time, and raged and raged. Why was her body not
sufficient for him? Why should he deem any one more beautiful? Why
should he not be true to his reiterated protestations that he cared for
her? Ot