Lynde’s face clouded still more at this outburst. “You go to the devil,” he retorted. “I don’t get you at all. Sometimes you talk as though you were fond of me. At other times you’re all wrapped up in him. Now you either care for me or you don’t. Which is it? If you’re so crazy about him that you can’t leave home for a month or so you certainly can’t care much about me.” Aileen, however, because of her long experience with Cowperwood, was more than a match for Lynde. At the same time she was afraid to let go of him for fear that she should have no one to care for her. She liked him. He was a happy resource in her misery, at least for the moment. Yet the knowledge that Cowperwood looked upon this affair as a heavy blemish on her pristine solidarity cooled her. At the thought of him and of her whole tarnished and troubled career she was very unhappy. “Hell!” Lynde had repeated, irritably, “stay if you want to. I’ll not be trying to over-persuade you—depend on that.” They quarreled still further over this matter, and, though they eventually made up, both sensed the drift toward an ultimately unsatisfactory conclusion. It was one morning not long after this that Cowperwood, feeling in a genial mood over his affairs, came into Aileen’s room, as he still did on occasions, to finish dressing and pass the time of day. “Well,” he observed, gaily, as he stood before the mirror adjusting his collar and tie, “how are you and Lynde getting along these days—nicely?” “Oh, you go to the devil!” replied Aileen, flaring up and struggling with her divided feelings, which pained her constantly. “If it hadn’t been for you there wouldn’t be any chance for your smarty ‘how-am-I-getting-alongs.’ I am getting along all right—fine—regardless of anything you may think. He’s as good a man as you are any day, and better. I like him. At least he’s fond of me, and that’s more than you are. Why should you care what I do? You don’t, so why talk about it? I want you to let me alone.” “Aileen, Aileen, how you carry on! Don’t flare up so. I meant nothing by it. I’m sorry as much for myself as for you. I’ve told you I’m not jealous. You think I’m critical. I’m not anything of the kind. I know how you feel. That’s all very good.” “Oh yes, yes,” she replied. “Well, you can keep your feelings to yourself. Go to the devil! Go to the devil, I tell you!” Her eyes blazed.