When they were finally alone in the Astor House, New York, after hours of make-believe and public pretense of indifference, he gathered her in his arms.
"Oh, it's delicious," he exclaimed, "to have you all to myself." She met his eagerness with that smiling, tantalizing passivity which he had so much admired but which this time was tinged strongly with a communicated desire.

He thought he should never have enough of her, her beautiful face, her lovely arms, her smooth, lymphatic body.

They were like two children, billing and cooing, driving, dining, seeing the sights.

He was curious to visit the financial sections of both cities.
New York and Boston appealed to him as commercially solid.

He wondered, as he observed the former, whether he should ever leave Philadelphia.
He was going to be very happy there now, he thought, with Lillian and possibly a brood of young Cowperwoods.