calling on her. It was almost ridiculous in
the face of things--her seniority, her widowhood, her placid, retiring
disposition--but the sheer, quiet, determined force of this young man
made it plain that he was not to be balked by her sense of convention.

Cowperwood did not delude himself with any noble theories of conduct in
regard to her. She was beautiful, with a mental and physical lure for
him that was irresistible, and that was all he desired to know. No other
woman was holding him like that. It never occurred to him that he could
not or should not like other women at the same time. There was a great
deal of palaver about the sanctity of the home. It rolled off his mental
sphere like water off the feathers of a duck. He was not eager for her
money, though he was well aware of it. He felt that he could use it
to her advantage. He wanted her physically. He felt a keen, primitive
interest in the children they would have. He wanted to find out if he
could make her love him vigorously and could rout out the memory of her
former life. Strange ambition. Strange perversion, one might almost say.

In spite of her fears and her uncertainty, Lillian Semple accepted his
attentions and interest because, equally in spite of herself, she was
drawn to him. One night, when she was going to bed, she stopped in front
of her dressing table and looked at her face and her bare neck and arms.
They were very pretty. A subtle something came over her as she surveyed
her long, peculiarly shaded hair. She thought of young Cowperwood, and
then was chilled and shamed by the vision of the late Mr. Semple and the
force and quality of public opinion.

"Why do you come to see me so often?" she asked him when he called the
following evening.

"Oh, don't you know?" he replied, looking at her in an interpretive way.

"No."

"Sure you don't?"

"Well, I know you liked Mr. Semple, and I always thought you liked me as
his wife. He's gone, though, now."

"And you're here," he replied.

"And I'm here?"

"Yes. I like you. I like to be with you. Don't you like me that way?"

"Why, I've never thought of it. You're so much younger. I'm five years
older than you are."

"In years," he said, "certainly. That's nothing. I'm fifteen years older
than you are in other ways. I know more about life in some ways than
you can ever hope to learn--don't you think so?" he added, softly,
persuasively.

"Well, that's true. But I know a lot of things you don't