“You’ll make a convert of me yet, Fletcher,” replied Cowperwood.  “You or art will be the ruin of me.  I’m inclined that way temperamentally as it is, I think, and between you and Ellsworth and Gordon Strake”—­another young man intensely interested in painting—­“you’ll complete my downfall.  Strake has a splendid idea.  He wants me to begin right now—­I’m using that word ‘right’ in the sense of ‘properly,’” he commented—­“and get what examples I can of just the few rare things in each school or period of art which would properly illustrate each.  He tells me the great pictures are going to increase in value, and what I could get for a few hundred thousand now will be worth millions later.  He doesn’t want me to bother with American art.”

“He’s right,” exclaimed Gray, “although it isn’t good business for me to praise another art man.  It would take a great deal of money, though.”

“Not so very much.  At least, not all at once.  It would be a matter of years, of course.  Strake thinks that some excellent examples of different periods could be picked up now and later replaced if anything better in the same held showed up.”

His mind, in spite of his outward placidity, was tinged with a great seeking.  Wealth, in the beginning, had seemed the only goal, to which had been added the beauty of women.  And now art, for art’s sake—­the first faint radiance of a rosy dawn—­had begun to shine in upon him, and to the beauty of womanhood he was beginning to see how necessary it was to add the beauty of life—­the beauty of material background—­how, in fact, the only background for great beauty was great art.  This girl, this Aileen Butler, her raw youth and radiance, was nevertheless creating in him a sense of the distinguished and a need for it which had never existed in him before to the same degree.  It is impossible to define these subtleties of reaction, temperament on temperament, for no one knows to what degree we are marked by the things which attract us.  A love affair such as this had proved to be was little less or more than a drop of coloring added to a glass of clear water, or a foreign chemical agent introduced into a delicate chemical formula.

In short, for all her crudeness, Aileen Butler was a definite force personally.  Her nature, in a way, a protest against the clumsy conditions by which she found herself surrounded, was almost irrationally ambitious.  To think that for so long, having been born into the Butler family, she had been the subject, as well as the victim of such commonplace and inartistic illusions and conditions, whereas now, owing to her contact with, and mental subordination to Cowperwood, she was learning so many wonderful phases of social, as well as financial, refinement of which previously she had guessed nothing.  The wonder, for instance, of a future social career as the wife of such a man as Frank Cowperwood.  The beauty and resourcefulness of his mind, which, after hours of intimate contact with her, he was pleased to reveal, and which, so definite were his comments and instructions, she could not fail to sense.  The wonder of his financial and artistic and future social dreams.  And, oh, oh, she was his, and he was hers.  She was actually beside herself at times with the glory, as well as the delight of all this.