ng alike to men and to women in all walks and
conditions of life.

The secretary addressed came back with Cowperwood's letter of
introduction, and immediately Cowperwood followed.

Mr. Addison instinctively arose--a thing he did not always do. "I'm
pleased to meet you, Mr. Cowperwood," he said, politely. "I saw you
come in just now. You see how I keep my windows here, so as to spy out
the country. Sit down. You wouldn't like an apple, would you?" He
opened a left-hand drawer, producing several polished red winesaps, one
of which he held out. "I always eat one about this time in the
morning."

"Thank you, no," replied Cowperwood, pleasantly, estimating as he did
so his host's temperament and mental caliber. "I never eat between
meals, but I appreciate your kindness. I am just passing through
Chicago, and I thought I would present this letter now rather than
later. I thought you might tell me a little about the city from an
investment point of view."

As Cowperwood talked, Addison, a short, heavy, rubicund man with
grayish-brown sideburns extending to his ear-lobes and hard, bright,
twinkling gray eyes--a proud, happy, self-sufficient man--munched his
apple and contemplated Cowperwood. As is so often the case in life, he
frequently liked or disliked people on sight, and he prided himself on
his judgment of men. Almost foolishly, for one so conservative, he was
taken with Cowperwood--a man immensely his superior--not because of the
Drexel letter, which spoke of the latter's "undoubted financial genius"
and the advantage it would be to Chicago to have him settle there, but
because of the swimming wonder of his eyes. Cowperwood's personality,
while maintaining an unbroken outward reserve, breathed a tremendous
humanness which touched his fellow-banker. Both men were in their way
walking enigmas, the Philadelphian far the subtler of the two. Addison
was ostensibly a church-member, a model citizen; he represented a point
of view to which Cowperwood would never have stooped. Both men were
ruthless after their fashion, avid of a physical life; but Addison was
the weaker in that he was still afraid--very much afraid--of what life
might do to him. The man before him had no sense of fear. Addison
contributed judiciously to charity, subscribed outwardly to a dull
social routine, pretended to love his wife, of whom he was weary, and
took his human pleasure secretly. The man before him subscribed to
nothing, refus