There was one line being laid out to within a few blocks of his new home—­the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Street line it was called—­which interested him greatly.  He rode on it occasionally when he was delayed or did not wish to trouble about a vehicle.  It ran through two thriving streets of red-brick houses, and was destined to have a great future once the city grew large enough.  As yet it was really not long enough.  If he could get that, for instance, and combine it with Butler’s lines, once they were secured—­or Mollenhauer’s, or Simpson’s, the legislature could be induced to give them additional franchises.  He even dreamed of a combination between Butler, Mollenhauer, Simpson, and himself.  Between them, politically, they could get anything.  But Butler was not a philanthropist.  He would have to be approached with a very sizable bird in hand.  The combination must be obviously advisable.  Besides, he was dealing for Butler in street-railway stocks, and if this particular line were such a good thing Butler might wonder why it had not been brought to him in the first place.  It would be better, Frank thought, to wait until he actually had it as his own, in which case it would be a different matter.  Then he could talk as a capitalist.  He began to dream of a city-wide street-railway system controlled by a few men, or preferably himself alone.

Chapter XVII

The days that had been passing brought Frank Cowperwood and Aileen Butler somewhat closer together in spirit.  Because of the pressure of his growing affairs he had not paid so much attention to her as he might have, but he had seen her often this past year.  She was now nineteen and had grown into some subtle thoughts of her own.  For one thing, she was beginning to see the difference between good taste and bad taste in houses and furnishings.

“Papa, why do we stay in this old barn?” she asked her father one evening at dinner, when the usual family group was seated at the table.

“What’s the matter with this house, I’d like to know?” demanded Butler, who was drawn up close to the table, his napkin tucked comfortably under his chin, for he insisted on this when company was not present.  “I don’t see anything the matter with this house.  Your mother and I manage to live in it well enough.”

“Oh, it’s terrible, papa.  You know it,” supplemented Norah, who was seventeen and quite as bright as her sister, though a little less experienced.  “Everybody says so.  Look at all the nice houses that are being built everywhere about here.”

“Everybody!  Everybody!  Who is ‘everybody,’ I’d like to know?” demanded Butler, with the faintest touch of choler and much humor.  “I’m somebody, and I like it.  Those that don’t like it don’t have to live in it.  Who are they?  What’s the matter with it, I’d like to know?”

The question in just this form had been up a number of times before, and had been handled in just this manner, or passed over entirely with a healthy Irish grin.  To-night, however, it was destined for a little more extended thought.