This evening, for the first time, it seemed to him
that Eileen was not so beautiful a woman as he had thought her.
Something had roiled the blood in her delicate veins until it had
muddied the clear freshness of her smooth satiny skin. There was
discontent in her eyes, which were her most convincing
attraction. They were big eyes, wide open and candid. She had
so trained them through a lifetime of practice that she could
meet other eyes directly while manipulating her most dextrous
evasion. Whenever Eileen was most deceptively subtle, she was
looking straight at her victim with the innocent appeal of a baby
in her gaze.
John Gilman had had his struggle. He had succeeded. He had
watched, and waited, and worked incessantly, and when his
opportunity came he was ready. Success had come to such a degree
that in a short time he had assured himself of comfort for any
woman he loved. He knew that his appearance was quite as
pleasing as that of his friend. He knew that in manner and
education they were equals. He was now handling large business
affairs. He had made friends in high places. Whenever Eileen
was ready, he would build and furnish a home he felt sure would
be equal, if not superior, to what Morrison was planning. Why
had Eileen felt that she would envy any woman who shared life
with Peter Morrison?
All that day she had annoyed him, because there must have been in
the very deeps of his soul "a still, small voice" whispering to
him that he had not lived up to the best traditions of a
gentleman in his course with Marian.
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