being courteously entertained." Cowperwood saw it all.

Aileen was being spoiled in a way, but there was no help. She
dressed and dressed. The Englishmen used to look at her in Hyde
Park, where she rode and drove; at Claridges' where they stayed;
in Bond Street, where she shopped. The Englishwomen, the majority
of them remote, ultra-conservative, simple in their tastes, lifted
their eyes. Cowperwood sensed the situation, but said nothing.
He loved Aileen, and she was satisfactory to him, at least for the
present, anyhow, beautiful. If he could adjust her station in
Chicago, that would be sufficient for a beginning. After three
weeks of very active life, during which Aileen patronized the
ancient and honorable glories of England, they went on to Paris.

Here she was quickened to a child-like enthusiasm. "You know,"
she said to Cowperwood, quite solemnly, the second morning, "the
English don't know how to dress. I thought they did, but the
smartest of them copy the French. Take those men we saw last night
in the Cafe d'Anglais. There wasn't an Englishman I saw that
compared with them."

"My dear, your tastes are exotic," replied Cowperwood, who was
watching her with pleased interest while he adjusted his tie.
"The French smart crowd are almost too smart, dandified. I think
some of those young fellows had on corsets."

"What of it?" replied Aileen. "I like it. If you're going to be
smart, why not be very smart?"

"I know that's your theory, my dear," he said, "but it can be