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, refused to talk save
to intimates, whom he controlled spiritually, and did as he pleased.

"Why, I'll tell you, Mr. Cowperwood," Addison replied. "We people
out here in Chicago think so well of ourselves that sometimes we're
afraid to say all we think for fear of appearing a little extravagant.
We're like the youngest son in the family that knows he can lick
all the others, but doesn't want to do it--not just yet. We're
not as handsome as we might be--did you ever see a growing boy
that was?--but we're absolutely sure that we're going to be. Our
pants and shoes and coat and hat get too small for us every six
months, and so we don't look very fashionable, but there are big,
strong, hard muscles and bones underneath, Mr. Cowperwood, as
you'll discover when you get to looking around. Then you won't
mind the clothes so much."

Mr. Addison's round, frank eyes narrowed and hardened for a moment.
A kind of metallic hardness came into his voice. Cowperwood could
see that he was honestly enamoured of his adopted city. Chicago
was his most beloved mistress. A moment later the flesh about his
eyes crinkled, his mouth softened, and he smiled. "I'll be glad
to tell you anything I can," he went on. "There are a lot of