she was an ideal mate for me, and I
still think she has many qualities which make her attractive. But my
own ideals in regard to women have all the time been slowly changing.
I have come to see, through various experiments, that she is not the
ideal woman for me at all. She does not understand me. I don't
pretend to understand myself, but it has occurred to me that there
might be a woman somewhere who would understand me better than I
understand myself, who would see the things that I don't see about
myself, and would like me, anyhow. I might as well tell you that I
have been a lover of women always. There is just one ideal thing in
this world to me, and that is the woman that I would like to have."

"I should think it would make it rather difficult for any one woman to
discover just which woman you would like to have?" smiled Berenice,
whimsically. Cowperwood was unabashed.

"It would, I presume, unless she should chance to be the very one woman
I am talking about," he replied, impressively.

"I should think she would have her work cut out for her under any
circumstances," added Berenice, lightly, but with a touch of sympathy
in her voice.

"I am making a confession," replied Cowperwood, seriously and a little
heavily. "I am not apologizing for myself. The women I have known
would make ideal wives for some men, but not for me. Life has taught me
that much. It has changed me."

"And do you think the process has stopped by any means?" she replied,
quaintly, with that air of superior banter which puzzled, fascinated,
defied him.

"No, I will not say that. My ideal has become fixed, though,
apparently. I have had it for a number of years now. It spoils other
matters for me. There is such a thing as an ideal. We do have a
pole-star in physics."

As he said this Cowperwood realized that for him he was making a very
remarkable confession. He had come here primarily to magnetize her and
control her judgment. As a matter of fact, it was almost the other way
about. She was almost dominating him. Lithe, slender, resourceful,
histrionic, she was standing before him making him explain himself,
only he did not see her so much in that light as in the way of a large,
kindly, mothering intelligence which could see, feel, and understand.
She would know how it was, he felt sure. He could make himself
understood if he tried. Whatever he was or had been, she would not take
a petty view. She could not. Her answ