Mr. Addison instinctively arose--a thing he did not always do.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Cowperwood," he said, politely. "I
saw you come in just now. You see how I keep my windows here, so
as to spy out the country. Sit down. You wouldn't like an apple,
would you?" He opened a left-hand drawer, producing several polished
red winesaps, one of which he held out. "I always eat one about
this time in the morning."

"Thank you, no," replied Cowperwood, pleasantly, estimating as he
did so his host's temperament and mental caliber. "I never eat
between meals, but I appreciate your kindness. I am just passing
through Chicago, and I thought I would present this letter now
rather than later. I thought you might tell me a little about the
city from an investment point of view."

As Cowperwood talked, Addison, a short, heavy, rubicund man with
grayish-brown sideburns extending to his ear-lobes and hard, bright,
twinkling gray eyes--a proud, happy, self-sufficient man--munched
his apple and contemplated Cowperwood. As is so often the case
in life, he frequently liked or disliked people on sight, and he
prided himself on his judgment of men. Almost foolishly, for one
so conservative, he was taken with Cowperwood--a man immensely his
superior--not because of the Drexel letter, which spoke of the
latter's "undoubted financial genius" and the advantage it would
be to Chicago to have him settle there, but because of the swimming
wonder of his eyes. Cowperwood's personality, while maintaining
an unbroken outward reserve, breathed a tremendous humanness which
touched his fellow-banker. Both men were in their way walking
enigmas, the Philadelphian far the subtler of the two. Addison