ed politely
indifferent. Nevertheless, he remained true to his persistence in the
pursuit of any game he had fixed upon.

Mrs. Carter, whose relations with Cowperwood had in the past been not
wholly platonic, nevertheless attributed much of his interest in her to
her children and their vital chance. Berenice and Rolfe themselves
knew nothing concerning the nature of their mother's arrangements with
Cowperwood. True to his promise of protectorship and assistance, he
had established her in a New York apartment adjacent to her daughter's
school, and where he fancied that he himself might spend many happy
hours were Berenice but near. Proximity to Berenice! The desire to
arouse her interest and command her favor! Cowperwood would scarcely
have cared to admit to himself how great a part this played in a
thought which had recently been creeping into his mind. It was that of
erecting a splendid house in New York.

By degrees this idea of building a New York house had grown upon him.
His Chicago mansion was a costly sepulcher in which Aileen sat brooding
over the woes which had befallen her. Moreover, aside from the social
defeat which it represented, it was becoming merely as a structure, but
poorly typical of the splendor and ability of his imaginations. This
second dwelling, if he ever achieved it, should be resplendent, a
monument to himself. In his speculative wanderings abroad he had seen
many such great palaces, designed with the utmost care, which had
housed the taste and culture of generations of men. His
art-collection, in which he took an immense pride, had been growing,
until it was the basis if not the completed substance for a very
splendid memorial. Already in it were gathered paintings of all the
important schools; to say nothing of collections of jade, illumined
missals, porcelains, rugs, draperies, mirror frames, and a beginning at
rare originals of sculpture. The beauty of these strange things, the
patient laborings of inspired souls of various times and places, moved
him, on occasion, to a gentle awe. Of all individuals he respected,
indeed revered, the sincere artist. Existence was a mystery, but these
souls who set themselves to quiet tasks of beauty had caught something
of which he was dimly conscious. Life had touched them with a vision,
their hearts and souls were attuned to sweet harmonies of which the
common world knew nothing. Sometimes, when he was weary after a
strenuous day, he woul