“Shall Cowperwood own the city?”
“Pretty cheap politics, I call that,” he commented.
And then he told of stopping in a so-called Republican wigwam at State and Sixteenth streets—a great, cheaply erected, unpainted wooden shack with seats, and of hearing himself bitterly denounced by the reigning orator.
“I was tempted once to ask that donkey a few questions,” he added, “but I decided I wouldn’t.”
Aileen had to smile.
In spite of all his faults he was such a wonderful man—to set a city thus by the ears.
“Yet, what care I how fair he be, if he be not fair to me.”
“Did you meet any one else besides Lynde you liked?” he finally asked, archly, seeking to gather further data without stirring up too much feeling.
Aileen, who had been studying him, feeling sure the subject would come up again, replied:
“No, I haven’t; but I don’t need to.
One is enough.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, gently.
“Oh, just what I say.
One will do.”
“You mean you are in love with Lynde?”
“I mean—oh!” She stopped and surveyed him defiantly.
“What difference does it make to you what I mean?
Yes, I am.
But what do you care?
Why do you sit there and question me?
It doesn’t make any difference to you what I do.
You don’t want me.
Why should you sit there and try to find out, or watch?
It hasn’t been any consideration for you that has restrained me so far.
Suppose I am in love?
What difference would it make to you?”
“Oh, I care.
You know I care.
Why do you say that?”
“Yes, you care,” she flared.
“I know how you care.
Well, I’ll just tell you one thing”—rage at his indifference was driving her on—“I am in love with Lynde, and what’s more, I’m his mistress.
And I’ll continue to be.
But what do you care?
Pshaw!” Her eyes blazed hotly, her color rose high and strong. She breathed heavily.
At this announcement, made in the heat of spite and rage generated by long indifference, Cowperwood sat up for a moment, and his eyes hardened with quite that implacable glare with which he sometimes confronted an enemy.
He felt at once there were many things he could do to make her life miserable, and to take revenge on Lynde, but he decided after a moment he would not.
It was not weakness, but a sense of superior power that was moving him.
Why should he be jealous?
Had he not been unkind enough?
In a moment his mood changed to one of sorrow for Aileen, for himself, for life, indeed—its tangles of desire and necessity.
He could not blame Aileen.
Lynde was surely attractive.
He had no desire to part with her or to quarrel with him—merely to temporarily cease all intimate relations with her and allow her mood to clear itself up.
Perhaps she would want to leave him of her own accord.
Perhaps, if he ever found the right woman, this might prove good grounds for his leaving her.
The right woman—where was she?
He had never found her yet.
“Aileen,” he said, quite softly, “I wish you wouldn’t feel so bitterly about this.
Why should you?