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the whole world with his feelings, why should there be concealment between them, or at least
mental evasion of a fact which physically she subscribed to? Why do one thing and think
another? To be sure, she was devoted to him in her quiet way, not passionately (as he looked
back he could not say that she had ever been that), but intellectually. Duty, as she understood
it, played a great part in this. She was dutiful. And then what people thought, what the time-spirit
demanded--these were the great things. Aileen, on the contrary, was probably not dutiful, and it
was obvious that she had no temperamental connection with current convention. No doubt she
had been as well instructed as many another girl, but look at her. She was not obeying her
instructions.
In the next three months this relationship took on a more flagrant form. Aileen, knowing full well
what her parents would think, how unspeakable in the mind of the current world were the
thoughts she was thinking, persisted, nevertheless, in so thinking and longing. Cowperwood,
now that she had gone thus far and compromised herself in intention, if not in deed, took on a
peculiar charm for her. It was not his body--great passion is never that, exactly. The flavor of his
spirit was what attracted and compelled, like the glow of a flame to a moth. There was a light of
romance in his eyes, which, however governed and controlled--was directive and almost all-
powerful to her.
When he touched her hand at parting, it was as though she had received an electric shock, and
she recalled that it was very difficult for her to look directly into his eyes. Something akin to a
destructive force seemed to issue from them at times. Other people, men particularly, found it
difficult to face Cowperwood's glazed stare. It was as though there were another pair of eyes
behind those they saw, watching through thin, obscuring curtains. You could not tell what he
was thinking.
And during the next few months she found herself coming closer and closer to Cowperwood. At
his home one evening, seated at the piano, no one else being present at the moment, he
leaned over and kissed her. There was a cold, snowy street visible through the interstices of the
hangings of the windows, and gas-lamps flickering outside. He had come in early, and hearing
Aileen, he came to where she was seated at the piano. She was wearing a rough, gray wool
cloth dress, ornately banded with fringed Oriental embroidery in blue and burnt-orange, and her
beauty was further enhanced by a gray hat planned to match her dress, with a plume of shaded
orange and blue. On her fingers were four or five rings, far too many--an opal, an emerald, a
ruby, and a diamond--flashing visibly as she played.
She knew it was he, without turning. He came beside her, and she looked up smiling, the
reverie evoked by Schubert partly vanishing-- or melting into another mood. Suddenly he bent
over and pressed his lips firmly to hers. His mustache thrilled her with its silky touch. She
stopped playing and tried to catch her breath, for, strong as she was, it affected her breathing.
Her heart was beating like a triphammer. She did not say, "Oh," or, "You mustn't," but rose and
walked over to a window, where she lifted a curtain, pretending to look out. She felt as though
she might faint, so intensely happy was she.
Cowperwood followed her quickly. Slipping his arms about her waist, he looked at her flushed
cheeks, her clear, moist eyes and red mouth.
"You love me?" he whispered, stern and compelling because of his desire.
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