He purchased a horse and buggy about this time—­the most attractive-looking animal and vehicle he could find—­the combination cost him five hundred dollars—­and invited Mrs. Semple to drive with him.  She refused at first, but later consented.  He had told her of his success, his prospects, his windfall of fifteen thousand dollars, his intention of going into the note-brokerage business.  She knew his father was likely to succeed to the position of vice-president in the Third National Bank, and she liked the Cowperwoods.  Now she began to realize that there was something more than mere friendship here.  This erstwhile boy was a man, and he was calling on her.  It was almost ridiculous in the face of things—­her seniority, her widowhood, her placid, retiring disposition—­but the sheer, quiet, determined force of this young man made it plain that he was not to be balked by her sense of convention.

Cowperwood did not delude himself with any noble theories of conduct in regard to her.  She was beautiful, with a mental and physical lure for him that was irresistible, and that was all he desired to know.  No other woman was holding him like that.  It never occurred to him that he could not or should not like other women at the same time.  There was a great deal of palaver about the sanctity of the home.  It rolled off his mental sphere like water off the feathers of a duck.  He was not eager for her money, though he was well aware of it.  He felt that he could use it to her advantage.  He wanted her physically.  He felt a keen, primitive interest in the children they would have.  He wanted to find out if he could make her love him vigorously and could rout out the memory of her former life.  Strange ambition.  Strange perversion, one might almost say.

In spite of her fears and her uncertainty, Lillian Semple accepted his attentions and interest because, equally in spite of herself, she was drawn to him.  One night, when she was going to bed, she stopped in front of her dressing table and looked at her face and her bare neck and arms.  They were very pretty.  A subtle something came over her as she surveyed her long, peculiarly shaded hair.  She thought of young Cowperwood, and then was chilled and shamed by the vision of the late Mr. Semple and the force and quality of public opinion.

“Why do you come to see me so often?” she asked him when he called the following evening.

“Oh, don’t you know?” he replied, looking at her in an interpretive way.

“No.”

“Sure you don’t?”

“Well, I know you liked Mr. Semple, and I always thought you liked me as his wife.  He’s gone, though, now.”

“And you’re here,” he replied.

“And I’m here?”

“Yes.  I like you.  I like to be with you.  Don’t you like me that way?”

“Why, I’ve never thought of it.  You’re so much younger.  I’m five years older than you are.”

“In years,” he said, “certainly.  That’s nothing.  I’m fifteen years older than you are in other ways.  I know more about life in some ways than you can ever hope to learn—­don’t you think so?” he added, softly, persuasively.