At this remark Cowperwood surveyed her coolly, critically, and yet not unsympathetically; but she swung out of the room with a defiant air before anything could be said, and went down to the music-room, from whence a few moments later there rolled up to him from the hall below the strains of the second Hungarian Rhapsodie, feelingly and for once movingly played. Into it Aileen put some of her own wild woe and misery. Cowperwood hated the thought for the moment that some one as smug as Lynde—so good-looking, so suave a society rake—should interest Aileen; but if it must be, it must be. He could have no honest reason for complaint. At the same time a breath of real sorrow for the days that had gone swept over him. He remembered her in Philadelphia in her red cape as a school-girl—in his father’s house—out horseback-riding, driving. What a splendid, loving girl she had been—such a sweet fool of love. Could she really have decided not to worry about him any more? Could it be possible that she might find some one else who would be interested in her, and in whom she would take a keen interest? It was an odd thought for him. He watched her as she came into the dining-room later, arrayed in green silk of the shade of copper patina, her hair done in a high coil—and in spite of himself he could not help admiring her. She looked very young in her soul, and yet moody—loving (for some one), eager, and defiant. He reflected for a moment what terrible things passion and love are—how they make fools of us all. “All of us are in the grip of a great creative impulse,” he said to himself. He talked of other things for a while—the approaching election, a poster-wagon he had seen bearing the question, “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?”