In his home, in a little room on the second floor next his bedroom, which he had fixed up as an office with a desk, a safe, and a leather chair, he consulted his resources.
There were so many things to think of.
He went over again the list of people whom he had seen and whom he could count on to subscribe, and in so far as that was concerned—the award of one million dollars—he was safe. He figured to make two per cent. on the total transaction, or twenty thousand dollars.
If he did he was going to buy a house out on Girard Avenue beyond the Butlers', or, better yet, buy a piece of ground and erect one; mortgaging house and property so to do.
His father was prospering nicely.
He might want to build a house next to him, and they could live side by side.
His own business, aside from this deal, would yield him ten thousand dollars this year.
His street-car investments, aggregating fifty thousand, were paying six per cent.
His wife's property, represented by this house, some government bonds, and some real estate in West Philadelphia amounted to forty thousand more.
Between them they were rich; but he expected to be much richer.
All he needed now was to keep cool.
If he succeeded in this bond-issue matter, he could do it again and on a larger scale. There would be more issues.
He turned out the light after a while and went into his wife's boudoir, where she was sleeping.
The nurse and the children were in a room beyond.
"Well, Lillian," he observed, when she awoke and turned over toward him, "I think I have that bond matter that I was telling you about arranged at last.
I think I'll get a million of it, anyhow.
That'll mean twenty thousand.
If I do we'll build out on Girard Avenue.
That's going to be the street.
The college is making that neighborhood."
"That'll be fine, won't it, Frank!" she observed, and rubbed his arm as he sat on the side of the bed.
Her remark was vaguely speculative.
"We'll have to show the Butlers some attention from now on.
He's been very nice to me and he's going to be useful—I can see that.
He asked me to bring you over some time. We must go.
Be nice to his wife.
He can do a lot for me if he wants to.
He has two daughters, too.
We'll have to have them over here."
"I'll have them to dinner sometime," she agreed cheerfully and helpfully, "and I'll stop and take Mrs. Butler driving if she'll go, or she can take me."
She had already learned that the Butlers were rather showy—the younger generation—that they were sensitive as to their lineage, and that money in their estimation was supposed to make up for any deficiency in any other respect.
"Butler himself is a very presentable man," Cowperwood had once remarked to her, "but Mrs. Butler—well, she's all right, but she's a little commonplace.
She's a fine woman, though, I think, good-natured and good-hearted."
He cautioned her not to overlook Aileen and Norah, because the Butlers, mother and father, were very proud of them.
Mrs. Cowperwood at this time was thirty-two years old; Cowperwood twenty-seven.
The birth and care of two children had made some difference in her looks.
She was no longer as softly pleasing, more angular.
Her face was hollow-cheeked, like so many of Rossetti's and Burne-Jones's women.
Her health was really not as good as it had been—the care of two children and a late undiagnosed tendency toward gastritis having reduced her.
In short she was a little run down nervously and suffered from fits of depression.
Cowperwood had noticed this.
He tried to be gentle and considerate, but he was too much of a utilitarian and practical-minded observer not to realize that he was likely to have a sickly wife on his hands later.
Sympathy and affection were great things, but desire and charm must endure or one was compelled to be sadly conscious of their loss.
So often now he saw young girls who were quite in his mood, and who were exceedingly robust and joyous.
It was fine, advisable, practical, to adhere to the virtues as laid down in the current social lexicon, but if you had a sickly wife—And anyhow, was a man entitled to only one wife?
Must he never look at another woman?
Supposing he found some one?
He pondered those things between hours of labor, and concluded that it did not make so much difference.
If a man could, and not be exposed, it was all right.
He had to be careful, though.