“Stephanie!”
“I think I’d better go, now, please.”
Chapter XXVI. Love and War
It was during the earlier phases of his connection with Chicago street-railways that Cowperwood, ardently interesting himself in Stephanie Platow, developed as serious a sex affair as any that had yet held him.
At once, after a few secret interviews with her, he adopted his favorite ruse in such matters and established bachelor quarters in the down-town section as a convenient meeting-ground.
Several conversations with Stephanie were not quite as illuminating as they might have been, for, wonderful as she was—a kind of artistic godsend in this dull Western atmosphere—she was also enigmatic and elusive, very.
He learned speedily, in talking with her on several days when they met for lunch, of her dramatic ambitions, and of the seeming spiritual and artistic support she required from some one who would have faith in her and inspire her by his or her confidence.
He learned all about the Garrick Players, her home intimacies and friends, the growing quarrels in the dramatic organization.
He asked her, as they sat in a favorite and inconspicuous resort of his finding, during one of those moments when blood and not intellect was ruling between them, whether she had ever—
“Once,” she naively admitted.
It was a great shock to Cowperwood.
He had fancied her refreshingly innocent.
But she explained it was all so accidental, so unintentional on her part, very.
She described it all so gravely, soulfully, pathetically, with such a brooding, contemplative backward searching of the mind, that he was astonished and in a way touched.
What a pity!
It was Gardner Knowles who had done this, she admitted.
But he was not very much to blame, either.
It just happened.
She had tried to protest, but— Wasn’t she angry?
Yes, but then she was sorry to do anything to hurt Gardner Knowles.
He was such a charming boy, and he had such a lovely mother and sister, and the like.
Cowperwood was astonished.
He had reached that point in life where the absence of primal innocence in a woman was not very significant; but in Stephanie, seeing that she was so utterly charming, it was almost too bad.
He thought what fools the Platows must be to tolerate this art atmosphere for Stephanie without keeping a sharp watch over it.
Nevertheless, he was inclined to believe from observation thus far that Stephanie might be hard to watch.
She was ingrainedly irresponsible, apparently—so artistically nebulous, so non-self-protective.
To go on and be friends with this scamp!
And yet she protested that never after that had there been the least thing between them.
Cowperwood could scarcely believe it.
She must be lying, and yet he liked her so.
The very romantic, inconsequential way in which she narrated all this staggered, amused, and even fascinated him.
“But, Stephanie,” he argued, curiously, “there must been some aftermath to all this.
What happened?
What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head.
He had to smile.
“But oh, don’t let’s talk about it!” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to.
It hurts me.
There was nothing more.”
She sighed, and Cowperwood meditated.
The evil was now done, and the best that he could do, if he cared for her at all—and he did—was to overlook it.
He surveyed her oddly, wonderingly.
What a charming soul she was, anyhow! How naive—how brooding! She had art—lots of it.
Did he want to give her up?
As he might have known, it was dangerous to trifle with a type of this kind, particularly once awakened to the significance of promiscuity, and unless mastered by some absorbing passion.
Stephanie had had too much flattery and affection heaped upon her in the past two years to be easily absorbed.
Nevertheless, for the time being, anyhow, she was fascinated by the significance of Cowperwood.
It was wonderful to have so fine, so powerful a man care for her.
She conceived of him as a very great artist in his realm rather than as a business man, and he grasped this fact after a very little while and appreciated it.