In the next three months this relationship took on a more flagrant form.  Aileen, knowing full well what her parents would think, how unspeakable in the mind of the current world were the thoughts she was thinking, persisted, nevertheless, in so thinking and longing.  Cowperwood, now that she had gone thus far and compromised herself in intention, if not in deed, took on a peculiar charm for her.  It was not his body—­great passion is never that, exactly.  The flavor of his spirit was what attracted and compelled, like the glow of a flame to a moth.  There was a light of romance in his eyes, which, however governed and controlled—­was directive and almost all-powerful to her.

When he touched her hand at parting, it was as though she had received an electric shock, and she recalled that it was very difficult for her to look directly into his eyes.  Something akin to a destructive force seemed to issue from them at times.  Other people, men particularly, found it difficult to face Cowperwood’s glazed stare.  It was as though there were another pair of eyes behind those they saw, watching through thin, obscuring curtains.  You could not tell what he was thinking.

And during the next few months she found herself coming closer and closer to Cowperwood.  At his home one evening, seated at the piano, no one else being present at the moment, he leaned over and kissed her.  There was a cold, snowy street visible through the interstices of the hangings of the windows, and gas-lamps flickering outside.  He had come in early, and hearing Aileen, he came to where she was seated at the piano.  She was wearing a rough, gray wool cloth dress, ornately banded with fringed Oriental embroidery in blue and burnt-orange, and her beauty was further enhanced by a gray hat planned to match her dress, with a plume of shaded orange and blue.  On her fingers were four or five rings, far too many—­an opal, an emerald, a ruby, and a diamond—­flashing visibly as she played.

She knew it was he, without turning.  He came beside her, and she looked up smiling, the reverie evoked by Schubert partly vanishing—­or melting into another mood.  Suddenly he bent over and pressed his lips firmly to hers.  His mustache thrilled her with its silky touch.  She stopped playing and tried to catch her breath, for, strong as she was, it affected her breathing.  Her heart was beating like a triphammer.  She did not say, “Oh,” or, “You mustn’t,” but rose and walked over to a window, where she lifted a curtain, pretending to look out.  She felt as though she might faint, so intensely happy was she.

Cowperwood followed her quickly.  Slipping his arms about her waist, he looked at her flushed cheeks, her clear, moist eyes and red mouth.

“You love me?” he whispered, stern and compelling because of his desire.

“Yes!  Yes!  You know I do.”

He crushed her face to his, and she put up her hands and stroked his hair.