She seemed in an innocent outing mood.
Cowperwood smiled, thinking how one of these days--very shortly, perhaps--he was certain to take a signal revenge.

He would catch her in a lie, in a compromising position somewhere--in this studio, perhaps--and dismiss her with contempt.

In an elder day, if they had lived in Turkey, he would have had her strangled, sewn in a sack, and thrown into the Bosporus.

As it was, he could only dismiss her.

He smiled and smiled, smoothing her hand.