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. 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 anyone 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 someone 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 anyone but Cowperwood, waited until he had the latter alone to observe:
What can they do? Your request is a reasonable one. Why shouldn’t the city give you the tunnel? It’s no good to anyone as it is. And the loop is no more than the other roads have now. I’m thinking it’s the Chicago City Railway and that silk-stocking crowd on State Street or that gas crowd that’s talking against you. I’ve heard them before. Give them what they want, and it’s a fine moral cause. Give it to anyone else, and there’s something wrong with it. It’s little attention I pay to them. We have the council, let it pass the ordinances. It can’t be proved that they don’t do it willingly. The mayor is a sensible man. He’ll sign them. Let young MacDonald talk if he wants to. If he says too much you can talk to his father. As for Hyssop, he’s an old grandmother anyhow. I’ve never known him to be for a public improvement yet that was really good for Chicago unless Schryhart or Merrill or Arneel or someone else of that crowd wanted it. I know them of old. My advice is to go ahead and never mind them. To hell with them! Things will be sweet enough, once you are as powerful as they are. They’ll get nothing in the future without paying for it. It’s little enough they’ve ever done to further anything that I wanted.
Cowperwood, however, remained cool and thoughtful. Should he pay young MacDonald? he asked
