d, indeed, in his direction because of his
efficiency, simplicity, directness, and force, was especially touched
in this instance by his utter frankness and generosity. She might
question his temperamental control over his own sincerity in the
future, but she could scarcely question that at present he was sincere.
Moreover, his long period of secret love and admiration, the thought of
so powerful a man dreaming of her in this fashion, was so flattering.
It soothed her troubled vanity and shame in what had gone before. His
straightforward confession had a kind of nobility which was electric,
moving. She looked at him as he stood there, a little gray about the
temples--the most appealing ornament of some men to some women--and for
the life of her she could not help being moved by a kind of tenderness,
sympathy, mothering affection. Obviously he did need the woman his
attitude seemed to show that he needed, some woman of culture, spirit,
taste, amorousness; or, at least, he was entitled to dream of her. As
he stood before her he seemed a kind of superman, and yet also a bad
boy--handsome, powerful, hopeful, not so very much older than herself
now, impelled by some blazing internal force which harried him on and
on. How much did he really care for her? How much could he? How much
could he care for any one? Yet see all he had done to interest her.
What did that mean? To say all this? To do all this? Outside was his
car brown and radiant in the snow. He was the great Frank Algernon
Cowperwood, of Chicago, and he was pleading with her, a mere chit of a
girl, to be kind to him, not to put him out of her life entirely. It
touched her intellect, her pride, her fancy.

Aloud she said: "I like you better now. I really believe in you. I
never did, quite, before. Not that I think I ought to let you spend
your money on me or mother--I don't. But I admire you. You make me.
I understand how it is, I think. I know what your ambitions are. I
have always felt that I did, in part. But you mustn't talk to me any
more now. I want to think. I want to think over what you have said.
I don't know whether I can bring myself to it or not." (She noticed
that his eyes seemed to move somehow in their deepest depths again.)
"But we won't talk about it any more at present."

"But, Berenice," he added, with a real plea in his voice, "I wonder if
you do understand. I have been so lonely--I am--"

"Yes, I do," she replied, holding out her