The Financier / Финансист

Whenever he was at her home now, or she was at his and he was present, he managed somehow to say a word. He would come over quite near and look at her in a warm friendly fashion.

“Well, Aileen”—she could see his genial eyes—“how is it with you? How are your father and mother? Been out driving? That’s fine. I saw you to-day. You looked beautiful.”

“Oh, Mr. Cowperwood!”

“You did. You looked stunning. A black riding-habit becomes you. I can tell your gold hair a long way off.”

“Oh, now, you mustn’t say that to me.

You’ll make me vain. My mother and father tell me I’m too vain as it is.”

“Never mind your mother and father. I say you looked stunning, and you did. You always do.”

“Oh!”

She gave a little gasp of delight. The color mounted to her cheeks and temples. Mr. Cowperwood knew of course. He was so informed and intensely forceful. And already he was so much admired by so many, her own father and mother included, and by Mr. Mollenhauer and Mr.

Simpson, so she heard. And his own home and office were so beautiful. Besides, his quiet intensity matched her restless force.

Aileen and her sister were accordingly invited to the reception but the Butlers mere and pere were given to understand, in as tactful a manner as possible, that the dance afterward was principally for young people.

The reception brought a throng of people. There were many, very many, introductions. There were tactful descriptions of little effects Mr. Ellsworth had achieved under rather trying circumstances; walks under the pergola; viewings of both homes in detail.

Many of the guests were old friends. They gathered in the libraries and dining-rooms and talked. There was much jesting, some slappings of shoulders, some good story-telling, and so the afternoon waned into evening, and they went away.

Aileen had created an impression in a street costume of dark blue silk with velvet pelisse to match, and trimmed with elaborate pleatings and shirrings of the same materials.

A toque of blue velvet, with high crown and one large dark-red imitation orchid, had given her a jaunty, dashing air. Beneath the toque her red-gold hair was arranged in an enormous chignon, with one long curl escaping over her collar. She was not exactly as daring as she seemed, but she loved to give that impression.

“You look wonderful,” Cowperwood said as she passed him.

“I’ll look different to-night,” was her answer.