ntering a fascinating
man, and that he was fixing her with a warm, avid eye. For the moment
she recoiled from him as being a little too brazen in his stare, and
yet she admired the general appearance of him. He was of that smart
world that she admired so much, and from which now apparently she was
hopelessly debarred. That trig, bold air of his realized for her at
last the type of man, outside of Cowperwood, whom she would prefer
within limits to admire her. If she were going to be "bad," as she
would have phrased it to herself, she would be "bad" with a man such as
he. He would be winsome and coaxing, but at the same time strong,
direct, deliciously brutal, like her Frank. He had, too, what
Cowperwood could not have, a certain social air or swagger which came
with idleness, much loafing, a sense of social superiority and
security--a devil-may-care insouciance which recks little of other
people's will or whims.

When she next saw him, which was several weeks later at an affair of
the Courtney Tabors, friends of Lord's, he exclaimed:

"Oh yes. By George! You're the Mrs. Cowperwood I met several weeks ago
at Rhees Grier's studio. I've not forgotten you. I've seen you in my
eye all over Chicago. Taylor Lord introduced me to you. Say, but
you're a beautiful woman!"

He leaned ingratiatingly, whimsically, admiringly near.

Aileen realized that for so early in the afternoon, and considering the
crowd, he was curiously enthusiastic. The truth was that because of
some rounds he had made elsewhere he was verging toward too much
liquor. His eye was alight, his color coppery, his air swagger,
devil-may-care, bacchanal. This made her a little cautious; but she
rather liked his brown, hard face, handsome mouth, and crisp Jovian
curls. His compliment was not utterly improper; but she nevertheless
attempted coyly to avoid him.

"Come, Polk, here's an old friend of yours over here--Sadie
Boutwell--she wants to meet you again," some one observed, catching him
by the arm.

"No, you don't," he exclaimed, genially, and yet at the same time a
little resentfully--the kind of disjointed resentment a man who has had
the least bit too much is apt to feel on being interrupted. "I'm not
going to walk all over Chicago thinking of a woman I've seen somewhere
only to be carried away the first time I do meet her. I'm going to
talk to her first."

Aileen laughed. "It's charming of you, but we can meet again, perhaps.
Besides,