Stephanie Platow, by far the most individual of them all, developed a strange inconsequence as to her deeds.
It was when she was drawing near the age of twenty that the affair with Gardner Knowles began.
After a time Lane Cross, with his somewhat earnest attempt at artistic interpretation and his superiority in the matter of years—he was forty, and young Knowles only twenty-four—seemed more interesting to Stephanie, and he was quick to respond.
There followed an idle, passionate union with this man, which seemed important, but was not so at all.
And then it was that Stephanie began dimly to perceive that it was on and on that the blessings lie, that somewhere there might be some man much more remarkable than either of these; but this was only a dream.
She thought of Cowperwood at times; but he seemed to her to be too wrapped up in grim tremendous things, far apart from this romantic world of amateur dramatics in which she was involved.
Chapter XXV. Airs from the Orient
Cowperwood gained his first real impression of Stephanie at the Garrick Players, where he went with Aileen once to witness a performance of “Elektra.”
He liked Stephanie particularly in this part, and thought her beautiful.
One evening not long afterward he noticed her in his own home looking at his jades, particularly a row of bracelets and ear-rings.
He liked the rhythmic outline of her body, which reminded him of a letter S in motion.
Quite suddenly it came over him that she was a remarkable girl—very—destined, perhaps, to some significant future.
At the same time Stephanie was thinking of him.
“Do you find them interesting?” he asked, stopping beside her.
“I think they’re wonderful.
Those dark-greens, and that pale, fatty white!
I can see how beautiful they would be in a Chinese setting.
I have always wished we could find a Chinese or Japanese play to produce sometime.”
“Yes, with your black hair those ear-rings would look well,” said Cowperwood.
He had never deigned to comment on a feature of hers before.
She turned her dark, brown-black eyes on him—velvety eyes with a kind of black glow in them—and now he noticed how truly fine they were, and how nice were her hands—brown almost as a Malay’s.
He said nothing more; but the next day an unlabeled box was delivered to Stephanie at her home containing a pair of jade ear-rings, a bracelet, and a brooch with Chinese characters intagliated.
Stephanie was beside herself with delight.
She gathered them up in her hands and kissed them, fastening the ear-rings in her ears and adjusting the bracelet and ring.
Despite her experience with her friends and relatives, her stage associates, and her paramours, she was still a little unschooled in the world. Her heart was essentially poetic and innocent.
No one had ever given her much of anything—not even her parents.
Her allowance thus far in life had been a pitiful six dollars a week outside of her clothing.
As she surveyed these pretty things in the privacy of her room she wondered oddly whether Cowperwood was growing to like her.
Would such a strong, hard business man be interested in her?
She had heard her father say he was becoming very rich.
Was she a great actress, as some said she was, and would strong, able types of men like Cowperwood take to her—eventually?
She had heard of Rachel, of Nell Gwynne, of the divine Sarah and her loves.
She took the precious gifts and locked them in a black-iron box which was sacred to her trinkets and her secrets.
The mere acceptance of these things in silence was sufficient indication to Cowperwood that she was of a friendly turn of mind.
He waited patiently until one day a letter came to his office—not his house—addressed,
“Frank Algernon Cowperwood, Personal.”
It was written in a small, neat, careful hand, almost printed.
I don’t know how to thank you for your wonderful present.
I didn’t mean you should give them to me, and I know you sent them.
I shall keep them with pleasure and wear them with delight.
It was so nice of you to do this.
STEPHANIE PLATOW.
Cowperwood studied the handwriting, the paper, the phraseology.
For a girl of only a little over twenty this was wise and reserved and tactful.
She might have written to him at his residence.
He gave her the benefit of a week’s time, and then found her in his own home one Sunday afternoon.
Aileen had gone calling, and Stephanie was pretending to await her return.
“It’s nice to see you there in that window,” he said.
“You fit your background perfectly.”
“Do I?”