Celtic, their heads close together, their eyes looking straight out
at you. He admired them casually, and fancied they must be Butler's
daughters.

"Mr. Cowperwood?" inquired Butler, uttering the name fully with a
peculiar accent on the vowels. (He was a slow-moving man, solemn and
deliberate.) Cowperwood noticed that his body was hale and strong like
seasoned hickory, tanned by wind and rain. The flesh of his cheeks was
pulled taut and there was nothing soft or flabby about him.

"I'm that man."

"I have a little matter of stocks to talk over with you" ("matter"
almost sounded like "mather"), "and I thought you'd better come here
rather than that I should come down to your office. We can be more
private-like, and, besides, I'm not as young as I used to be."

He allowed a semi-twinkle to rest in his eye as he looked his visitor
over.

Cowperwood smiled.

"Well, I hope I can be of service to you," he said, genially.

"I happen to be interested just at present in pickin' up certain
street-railway stocks on 'change. I'll tell you about them later. Won't
you have somethin' to drink? It's a cold morning."

"No, thanks; I never drink."