“And ye think because she doesn’t complain that it’s all right, do ye?” he asked, sarcastically.

“From my point of view, yes; from yours no.  You have one view of life, Mr. Butler, and I have another.”

“Ye’re right there,” put in Butler, “for once, anyhow.”

“That doesn’t prove that either of us is right or wrong.  In my judgment the present end justifies the means.  The end I have in view is to marry Aileen.  If I can possibly pull myself out of this financial scrape that I am in I will do so.  Of course, I would like to have your consent for that—­so would Aileen; but if we can’t, we can’t.” (Cowperwood was thinking that while this might not have a very soothing effect on the old contractor’s point of view, nevertheless it must make some appeal to his sense of the possible or necessary.  Aileen’s present situation was quite unsatisfactory without marriage in view.  And even if he, Cowperwood, was a convicted embezzler in the eyes of the public, that did not make him so.  He might get free and restore himself—­would certainly—­and Aileen ought to be glad to marry him if she could under the circumstances.  He did not quite grasp the depth of Butler’s religious and moral prejudices.) “Lately,” he went on, “you have been doing all you can, as I understand it, to pull me down, on account of Aileen, I suppose; but that is simply delaying what I want to do.”

“Ye’d like me to help ye do that, I suppose?” suggested Butler, with infinite disgust and patience.

“I want to marry Aileen,” Cowperwood repeated, for emphasis’ sake.  “She wants to marry me.  Under the circumstances, however you may feel, you can have no real objection to my doing that, I am sure; yet you go on fighting me—­making it hard for me to do what you really know ought to be done.”

“Ye’re a scoundrel,” said Butler, seeing through his motives quite clearly.  “Ye’re a sharper, to my way of thinkin’, and it’s no child of mine I want connected with ye.  I’m not sayin’, seein’ that things are as they are, that if ye were a free man it wouldn’t be better that she should marry ye.  It’s the one dacent thing ye could do—­if ye would, which I doubt.  But that’s nayther here nor there now.  What can ye want with her hid away somewhere?  Ye can’t marry her.  Ye can’t get a divorce.  Ye’ve got your hands full fightin’ your lawsuits and kapin’ yourself out of jail.  She’ll only be an added expense to ye, and ye’ll be wantin’ all the money ye have for other things, I’m thinkin’.  Why should ye want to be takin’ her away from a dacent home and makin’ something out of her that ye’d be ashamed to marry if you could?  The laist ye could do, if ye were any kind of a man at all, and had any of that thing that ye’re plased to call love, would be to lave her at home and keep her as respectable as possible.  Mind ye, I’m not thinkin’ she isn’t ten thousand times too good for ye, whatever ye’ve made of her.  But if ye had any sinse of dacency left,