can see you looking around. That's a nice stenographer you have
in the office. I suppose it's her."

"Don't be silly, Aileen," he would reply. "Don't be coarse. You
know I wouldn't take up with a stenographer. An office isn't the
place for that sort of thing."

"Oh, isn't it? Don't silly me. I know you. Any old place is good
enough for you.

He laughed, and so did she. She could not help it. She loved him
so. There was no particular bitterness in her assaults. She loved
him, and very often he would take her in his arms, kiss her tenderly,
and coo: "Are you my fine big baby? Are you my red-headed doll?
Do you really love me so much? Kiss me, then." Frankly, pagan
passion in these two ran high. So long as they were not alienated
by extraneous things he could never hope for more delicious human
contact. There was no reaction either, to speak of, no gloomy
disgust. She was physically acceptable to him. He could always
talk to her in a genial, teasing way, even tender, for she did not
offend his intellectuality with prudish or conventional notions.
Loving and foolish as she was in some ways, she would stand blunt
reproof or correction. She could suggest in a nebulous, blundering
way things that would be good for them to do. Most of all at
present their thoughts centered upon Chicago society, the new
house, which by now had been contracted for, and what it would do
to facilitate their introduction and standing. Never did a woman's
life look more rosy, Aileen thought. It was almost too good to
be true. Her Frank was so handsome, so loving, so generous. There
was not a small idea about him. What if he did stray from her at