In fact, having encountered Sippens in the lobby of the Cecil one morning, he had regaled her with a brisk and colorful account of the tangle of affairs with which Cowperwood was now burdened.
“He’ll turn this town upside down, Mrs. Cowperwood,” Sippens had said, “if his interest holds out.
I just hope he doesn’t work too hard”—which was really not at all what he hoped.
“He’s not as young as he used to be, although he seems shrewder and quicker than ever.”
“I know, I know,” Aileen had replied at the time.
“There isn’t anything about Frank that you can tell me.
He’ll keep on working until he dies, I suppose.”
And she had left Sippens, feeling that this was true, yet suspecting that there must be a woman somewhere . . . possibly Berenice Fleming.
However, she was Mrs. Frank Cowperwood.
She had the consolation of knowing that wherever her name was mentioned, people would turn and look: in the shops, hotels, restaurants.
And then there was this Bruce Tollifer. Here he was, on her arrival, as handsome as ever, and saying as he entered her hotel suite: “Well, you did take my advice!
And now that you’re here, I’m going to make myself responsible for you.
If you’re in the mood, you must dress immediately for dinner.
I’ve arranged a little party for you. Some friends of mine from home are here.
I don’t know whether you know the Sidney Brainerds, of New York?”
“Oh, yes,” said Aileen, her brain a whirl of emotion.
She knew by hearsay that the Brainerds were wealthy and socially significant. Mrs. Brainerd, as she remembered, had been Marigold Shoemaker, of Philadelphia.
“Mrs. Brainerd is here in Paris,” continued Tollifer.
“She and several of her friends are coming on to dinner with us at Maxim’s, and afterward we’re going to an Argentinian’s place.
He’ll amuse you, I know.
Do you think you can be ready in an hour?” He turned toward the door with the air of one who was anticipating a very gay evening.
“Oh, I think so,” said Aileen, laughing.
“But you’ll have to leave now if I’m to start.”
“That fits in perfectly for me.
Wear white, if you have it, and dark red roses.
You’ll look stunning!”
Aileen flushed a little at this familiarity.
A high-handed caballero, to say the least!
“I’ll wear just that,” she said, giving him a vivid smile, “if I can find the dress.”
“Great!
I’ll be back for you in an hour.
Until then . . .” and he bowed and left.
As she dressed, she found herself more than ever at a loss to understand this sudden, assured invasion of Tollifer’s.
It was obvious he was not without money.
Yet, with these superior connections of his, why should he bother with her?
Why should this Mrs. Brainerd join a dinner party of which she was not to be the principal guest?
Pursued as she was by contradictory thoughts, this easy friendship of Tollifer, pretense though it might be, was still fascinating.
If he were an adventurer, coldly seeking money, like so many, most certainly he was a clever one. And with diversions at his beck and call, such as all those who had approached her in the past few years had lacked.
Their methods had all too often been dull, their manners irritating.
“Ready?” exclaimed Tollifer breezily as he came in an hour or so later, eyeing her white dress and the red roses at her waist.
“We’ll be just in time if we go now.
Mrs. Brainerd is bringing a young Greek banker, and her friend, Mrs. Judith Thorne, no acquaintance of mine, is bringing an Arab sheik, Ibrihim Abbas Bey, who is up to God knows what here in Paris!
But, anyway, he speaks English, and so does the Greek.”
Tollifer was a little flushed and, if anything, even more assured.
He paced the room with an easy stride, drunkenly elevated by the knowledge that he was once more in good form.
To Aileen’s amusement he railed against the furnishings of her suite.
“Look at those hangings!
God, what they get away with!
As I came up in the elevator just now, it squeaked.
Imagine that in New York!