The new firm, if you would go in with me, could handle it all
direct. I'm a rather strong outside man myself. I'm thinking of
locating permanently in Chicago. What would you say now to going
into business with me? Do you think we could get along in the same
office space?"

Cowperwood had a way, when he wanted to be pleasant, of beating
the fingers of his two hands together, finger for finger, tip for
tip. He also smiled at the same time--or, rather, beamed--his
eyes glowing with a warm, magnetic, seemingly affectionate light.

As it happened, old Peter Laughlin had arrived at that psychological
moment when he was wishing that some such opportunity as this might
appear and be available. He was a lonely man, never having been
able to bring himself to trust his peculiar temperament in the
hands of any woman. As a matter of fact, he had never understood
women at all, his relations being confined to those sad immoralities
of the cheapest character which only money--grudgingly given, at
that--could buy. He lived in three small rooms in West Harrison
Street, near Throup, where he cooked his own meals at times. His
one companion was a small spaniel, simple and affectionate, a she
dog, Jennie by name, with whom he slept. Jennie was a docile,
loving companion, waiting for him patiently by day in his office
until he was ready to go home at night. He talked to this spaniel
quite as he would to a human being (even more intimately, perhaps),
taking the dog's glances, tail-waggings, and general movements for
answer. In the morning when he arose, which was often as early
as half past four, or even four--he was a brief sleeper--he would
begin by pulling on his trousers (he seldom bathed any more except
at a down-town barber shop) and talking to Jennie.