“They’ll fight us with suits.
They may join hands later.
They blew up my gas-plant. They may blow up ours.”
“Let them blow,” said Cowperwood. “We can blow, too, and sue also.
I like lawsuits.
We’ll tie them up so that they’ll beg for quarter.”
His eyes twinkled cheerfully.
Chapter IX.
In Search of Victory
In the mean time the social affairs of Aileen had been prospering in a small way, for while it was plain that they were not to be taken up at once—that was not to be expected—it was also plain that they were not to be ignored entirely.
One thing that helped in providing a nice harmonious working atmosphere was the obvious warm affection of Cowperwood for his wife.
While many might consider Aileen a little brash or crude, still in the hands of so strong and capable a man as Cowperwood she might prove available.
So thought Mrs. Addison, for instance, and Mrs. Rambaud. McKibben and Lord felt the same way.
If Cowperwood loved her, as he seemed to do, he would probably “put her through” successfully.
And he really did love her, after his fashion.
He could never forget how splendid she had been to him in those old days when, knowing full well the circumstances of his home, his wife, his children, the probable opposition of her own family, she had thrown over convention and sought his love.
How freely she had given of hers!
No petty, squeamish bickering and dickering here.
He had been “her Frank” from the start, and he still felt keenly that longing in her to be with him, to be his, which had produced those first wonderful, almost terrible days.
She might quarrel, fret, fuss, argue, suspect, and accuse him of flirtation with other women; but slight variations from the norm in his case did not trouble her—at least she argued that they wouldn’t.
She had never had any evidence.
She was ready to forgive him anything, she said, and she was, too, if only he would love her.
“You devil,” she used to say to him, playfully.
“I know you.
I can see you looking around.
That’s a nice stenographer you have in the office.
I suppose it’s her.”
“Don’t be silly, Aileen,” he would reply.
“Don’t be coarse.
You know I wouldn’t take up with a stenographer.
An office isn’t the place for that sort of thing.”
“Oh, isn’t it?
Don’t silly me.
I know you.
Any old place is good enough for you.”
He laughed, and so did she.
She could not help it.
She loved him so.
There was no particular bitterness in her assaults.
She loved him, and very often he would take her in his arms, kiss her tenderly, and coo:
“Are you my fine big baby?
Are you my red-headed doll?
Do you really love me so much?
Kiss me, then.”
Frankly, pagan passion in these two ran high.
So long as they were not alienated by extraneous things he could never hope for more delicious human contact.
There was no reaction either, to speak of, no gloomy disgust.
She was physically acceptable to him.
He could always talk to her in a genial, teasing way, even tender, for she did not offend his intellectuality with prudish or conventional notions.
Loving and foolish as she was in some ways, she would stand blunt reproof or correction.