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this hour.
Chapter XXXVII
In spite of Butler's rage and his determination to do many things to the financier, if he could, he
was so wrought up and shocked by the attitude of Aileen that he could scarcely believe he was
the same man he had been twenty-four hours before. She was so nonchalant, so defiant. He
had expected to see her wilt completely when confronted with her guilt. Instead, he found, to his
despair, after they were once safely out of the house, that he had aroused a fighting quality in
the girl which was not incomparable to his own. She had some of his own and Owen's grit. She
sat beside him in the little runabout--not his own--in which he was driving her home, her face
coloring and blanching by turns, as different waves of thought swept over her, determined to
stand her ground now that her father had so plainly trapped her, to declare for Cowperwood and
her love and her position in general. What did she care, she asked herself, what her father
thought now? She was in this thing. She loved Cowperwood; she was permanently disgraced in
her father's eyes. What difference could it all make now? He had fallen so low in his parental
feeling as to spy on her and expose her before other men--strangers, detectives, Cowperwood.
What real affection could she have for him after this? He had made a mistake, according to her.
He had done a foolish and a contemptible thing, which was not warranted however bad her
actions might have been. What could he hope to accomplish by rushing in on her in this way
and ripping the veil from her very soul before these other men--these crude detectives? Oh, the
agony of that walk from the bedroom to the reception-room! She would never forgive her father
for this--never, never, never! He had now killed her love for him--that was what she felt. It was to
be a battle royal between them from now on. As they rode--in complete silence for a while--her
hands clasped and unclasped defiantly, her nails cutting her palms, and her mouth hardened. 
It is an open question whether raw opposition ever accomplishes anything of value in this world.
It seems so inherent in this mortal scheme of things that it appears to have a vast validity. It is
more than likely that we owe this spectacle called life to it, and that this can be demonstrated
scientifically; but when that is said and done, what is the value? What is the value of the
spectacle? And what the value of a scene such as this enacted between Aileen and her father?
The old man saw nothing for it, as they rode on, save a grim contest between them which could
end in what? What could he do with her? They were riding away fresh from this awful
catastrophe, and she was not saying a word! She had even asked him why he had come there!
How was he to subdue her, when the very act of trapping her had failed to do so? His ruse,
while so successful materially, had failed so utterly spiritually. They reached the house, and
Aileen got out. The old man, too nonplussed to wish to go further at this time, drove back to his
office. He then went out and walked--a peculiar thing for him to do; he had done nothing like
that in years and years--walking to think. Coming to an open Catholic church, he went in and
prayed for enlightenment, the growing dusk of the interior, the single everlasting lamp before the
repository of the chalice, and the high, white altar set with candles soothing his troubled
feelings. 
He came out of the church after a time and returned home. Aileen did not appear at dinner, and
he could not eat. He went into his private room and shut the door--thinking, thinking, thinking.
The dreadful spectacle of Aileen in a house of ill repute burned in his brain. To think that
Cowperwood should have taken her to such a place--his Aileen, his and his wife's pet. In spite
of his prayers, his uncertainty, her opposition, the puzzling nature of the situation, she must be
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