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. To his delight, she was even more beautiful physically than he had anticipated—a smoldering, passionate girl who met him with a fire which, though somber, quite rivaled his own. She was different, too, in her languorous acceptance of all that he bestowed from any one he had ever known. She was as tactful as Rita Sohlberg—more so—but so preternaturally silent at times. “Stephanie,” he would exclaim, “do talk. What are you thinking of? You dream like an African native.” She merely sat and smiled in a dark way or sketched or modeled him. She was constantly penciling something, until moved by the fever of her blood, when she would sit and look at him or brood silently, eyes down. Then, when he would reach for her with seeking hands, she would sigh, “Oh yes, oh yes!” Those were delightful days with Stephanie. In the matter of young MacDonald’s request for fifty thousand dollars in securities, as well as the attitude of the other editors—Hyssop, Braxton, Ricketts, and so on—who had proved subtly critical, Cowperwood conferred with Addison and McKenty. “A likely lad, that,” commented McKenty, succintly, when he heard it. “He’ll do better than his father in one way, anyhow. He’ll probably make more money.” McKenty had seen old General MacDonald just once in his life, and liked him. “I should like to know what the General would think of that if he knew,” commented Addison, who admired the old editor greatly. “I’m afraid he wouldn’t sleep very well.” “There is just one thing,” observed Cowperwood, thoughtfully. “This young man will certainly come into control of the _Inquirer_ sometime. He looks to me like some one who would not readily forget an injury.” He smiled sardonically. So did McKenty and Addison. “Be that as it may,” suggested the latter, “he isn’t editor yet.” McKenty, who never revealed his true views to any one but Cowperwood, waited until he had the latter alone to observe: