THAT five minutes that Cowperwood had spent in 
I Butler's presence was one of the most illuminating 
that had occurred to him recently. For the first time 
in his life he was in the presence of that interesting social 
phenomenon, the outraged sentiment of a parent. He 
himself was a father, the possessor of two rather in- 
teresting children. The boy, Frank, Jr., was to him not 
so remarkable. But Lillian, second, with her dainty little 
slip of a body and bright, hair-aureoled head, had always 
appealed to him. She was going to be a charming 
woman some day, he thought, and he was going to do 
much to establish her safely. He used to tell her that 
she had "eyes like blue buttons," "feet like a pussy cat," 
and "hands that were just five cents' worth," they were 
so little. The child admired her father, and would often 
stand by his chair in the library or the sitting-room, or his 
desk in his private office, when he worked at peculiar 
columns of figures, at times, or by his seat at the table, 
asking him questions. 
" Papa, do they, now, in fractions—do they, now, multi- 
ply the numerators together first ?" 
"Yes, now, little girlie, now—they do, now," he used 
to mock her, chucking her under the chin or squeezing 
her waist. 
"Now, papa, now, I don't think that's any way to 
talk, now. Is it, mama?" 
"You'd better not bother your father any longer," 
Mrs. Cowperwood would conservatively reply. " Come 
round here and sit down. Your soup is getting cold." 
" Now, I don't either, now," was Cowperwood's reply, 
13 377