unctuous, yielding way which was charming, Aileen thought. He
should have a strong, rich woman to take care of him. He was like a
stormy, erratic boy.

After refreshments were served Sohlberg played. Cowperwood was
interested by his standing figure--his eyes, his hair--but he was much
more interested in Mrs. Sohlberg, to whom his look constantly strayed.
He watched her hands on the keys, her fingers, the dimples at her
elbows. What an adorable mouth, he thought, and what light, fluffy
hair! But, more than that, there was a mood that invested it all--a bit
of tinted color of the mind that reached him and made him sympathetic
and even passionate toward her. She was the kind of woman he would
like. She was somewhat like Aileen when she was six years younger
(Aileen was now thirty-three, and Mrs. Sohlberg twenty-seven), only
Aileen had always been more robust, more vigorous, less nebulous. Mrs.
Sohlberg (he finally thought it out for himself) was like the rich
tinted interior of a South Sea oyster-shell--warm, colorful, delicate.
But there was something firm there, too. Nowhere in society had he
seen any one like her. She was rapt, sensuous, beautiful. He kept his
eyes on her until finally she became aware that he was gazing at her,
and then she looked back at him in an arch, smiling way, fixing her
mouth in a potent line. Cowperwood was captivated. Was she
vulnerable? was his one thought. Did that faint smile mean anything
more than mere social complaisance? Probably not, but could not a
temperament so rich and full be awakened to feeling by his own? When
she was through playing he took occasion to say: "Wouldn't you like to
stroll into the gallery? Are you fond of pictures?" He gave her his arm.

"Now, you know," said Mrs. Sohlberg, quaintly--very captivatingly, he
thought, because she was so pretty--"at one time I thought I was going
to be a great artist. Isn't that funny! I sent my father one of my
drawings inscribed 'to whom I owe it all.' You would have to see the
drawing to see how funny that is."

She laughed softly.

Cowperwood responded with a refreshed interest in life. Her laugh was
as grateful to him as a summer wind. "See," he said, gently, as they
entered the room aglow with the soft light produced by guttered jets,
"here is a Luini bought last winter." It was "The Mystic Marriage of
St. Catharine." He paused while she surveyed the rapt expression of the
attenuated saint. "And here," he we