“Honey!”

The voice was soft and coaxing.  He turned, giving her a warning nod in the direction of her father’s room upstairs.

She stood there, holding out one hand, and he stepped forward for a second.  Instantly her arms were about his neck, as he slipped his about her waist.

“I long to see you so.”

“I, too.  I’ll fix some way.  I’m thinking.”

He released her arms, and went out, and she ran to the window and looked out after him.  He was walking west on the street, for his house was only a few blocks away, and she looked at the breadth of his shoulders, the balance of his form.  He stepped so briskly, so incisively.  Ah, this was a man!  He was her Frank.  She thought of him in that light already.  Then she sat down at the piano and played pensively until dinner.

And it was so easy for the resourceful mind of Frank Cowperwood, wealthy as he was, to suggest ways and means.  In his younger gallivantings about places of ill repute, and his subsequent occasional variations from the straight and narrow path, he had learned much of the curious resources of immorality.  Being a city of five hundred thousand and more at this time, Philadelphia had its nondescript hotels, where one might go, cautiously and fairly protected from observation; and there were houses of a conservative, residential character, where appointments might be made, for a consideration.  And as for safeguards against the production of new life—­they were not mysteries to him any longer.  He knew all about them.  Care was the point of caution.  He had to be cautious, for he was so rapidly coming to be an influential and a distinguished man.  Aileen, of course, was not conscious, except in a vague way, of the drift of her passion; the ultimate destiny to which this affection might lead was not clear to her.  Her craving was for love—­to be fondled and caressed—­and she really did not think so much further.  Further thoughts along this line were like rats that showed their heads out of dark holes in shadowy corners and scuttled back at the least sound.  And, anyhow, all that was to be connected with Cowperwood would be beautiful.  She really did not think that he loved her yet as he should; but he would.  She did not know that she wanted to interfere with the claims of his wife.  She did not think she did.  But it would not hurt Mrs. Cowperwood if Frank loved her—­Aileen—­also.

How shall we explain these subtleties of temperament and desire?  Life has to deal with them at every turn.  They will not down, and the large, placid movements of nature outside of man’s little organisms would indicate that she is not greatly concerned.  We see much punishment in the form of jails, diseases, failures, and wrecks; but we also see that the old tendency is not visibly lessened.  Is there no law outside of the subtle will and power of the individual to achieve?  If not, it is surely high time that we knew it—­one and all.  We might then agree to do as we do; but there would be no silly illusion as to divine regulation.  Vox populi, vox Dei.