On the presentation of Addison's letter and of another, secured
through Van Sickle from a well-known political judge, Cowperwood
had been invited to call. On his arrival he was offered a drink,
a cigar, introduced to Mrs. McKenty--who, lacking an organized
social life of any kind, was always pleased to meet these celebrities
of the upper world, if only for a moment--and shown eventually
into the library. Mrs. McKenty, as he might have observed if he
had had the eye for it, was plump and fifty, a sort of superannuated
Aileen, but still showing traces of a former hardy beauty, and
concealing pretty well the evidences that she had once been a
prostitute. It so happened that on this particular evening McKenty
was in a most genial frame of mind. There were no immediate
political troubles bothering him just now. It was early in May.
Outside the trees were budding, the sparrows and robins were voicing
their several moods. A delicious haze was in the air, and some
early mosquitoes were reconnoitering the screens which protected
the windows and doors. Cowperwood, in spite of his various troubles,
was in a complacent state of mind himself. He liked life--even
its very difficult complications--perhaps its complications best
of all. Nature was beautiful, tender at times, but difficulties,
plans, plots, schemes to unravel and make smooth--these things
were what made existence worth while.

"Well now, Mr. Cowperwood," McKenty began, when they finally entered
the cool, pleasant library, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, Mr. McKenty," said Cowperwood, choosing his words and
bringing the finest resources of his temperament into play, "it
isn't so much, and yet it is. I want a franchise from the Chicago
city council, and I want you to help me get it if you will. I