Cowperwood was now actually transferring his possessions to New York, and had persuaded Aileen to accompany him. Fine compound of tact and chicane that he was, he had the effrontery to assure her that they could here create a happier social life. His present plan was to pretend a marital contentment which had no basis solely in order to make this transition period as undisturbed as possible. Subsequently he might get a divorce, or he might make an arrangement whereby his life would be rendered happy outside the social pale. Of all this Berenice Fleming knew nothing at all. At the same time the building of this splendid mansion eventually awakened her to an understanding of the spirit of art that occupied the center of Cowperwood’s iron personality and caused her to take a real interest in him. Before this she had looked on him as a kind of Western interloper coming East and taking advantage of her mother’s good nature to scrape a little social courtesy. Now, however, all that Mrs. Carter had been telling her of his personality and achievements was becoming crystallized into a glittering chain of facts. This house, the papers were fond of repeating, would be a jewel of rare workmanship. Obviously the Cowperwoods were going to try to enter society. “What a pity it is,” Mrs. Carter once said to Berenice, “that he couldn’t have gotten a divorce from his wife before he began all this. I am so afraid they will never be received. He would be if he only had the right woman; but she—” Mrs. Carter, who had once seen Aileen in Chicago, shook her head doubtfully. “She is not the type,” was her comment. “She has neither the air nor the understanding.” “If he is so unhappy with her,” observed Berenice, thoughtfully, “why doesn’t he leave her? She can be happy without him. It is so silly—this cat-and-dog existence. Still I suppose she values the position he gives her,” she added, “since she isn’t so interesting herself.” “I suppose,” said Mrs. Carter, “that he married her twenty years ago, when he was a very different man from what he is to-day. She is not exactly coarse, but not clever enough. She cannot do what he would like to see done. I hate to see mismatings of this kind, and yet they are so common. I do hope, Bevy, that when you marry it will be some one with whom you can get along, though I do believe I would rather see you unhappy than poor.” This was delivered as an early breakfast peroration in Central Park South, with the morning sun glittering on one of the nearest park lakes. Bevy, in spring-green and old-gold, was studying the social notes in one of the morning papers. “I think I should prefer to be unhappy with wealth than to be without it,” she said, idly, without looking up.