prompt:
Chapter: Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick
building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the
first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a
large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in
front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet
deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the
neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap.

The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, and
his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides
these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of various
extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.

"George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent salutation at
the dinner table.

"All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussing
the rancorous subject.

A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than
which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more
calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourished
within it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence
will not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids
at some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic chords which bind and
thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know.

Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this
home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the
home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as the
artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft rugs,
rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving of
some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes
gathered from heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large
furniture houses along with everything else which goes to make the
"perfectly appointed house."

In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters and
other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which could
not be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. He had
studied the subject for years in his business. He took no little
satisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived, something
of what the art of the thing required. He was not garrulous by any
means. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in his manner
toward the entire domestic economy of his life which was all that is
comprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He would not argue, he
would not talk freely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist.
What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in him
to walk away from the impossible thing.

There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his Jessica,
especially when he was younger and more confined in his success. Now,
however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had developed a certain amount
of reserve and independence which was not inviting to the richest form
of parental devotion. She was in the high school, and had notions of
life which were decidedly those of a patrician. She liked nice clothes
and urged for them constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individual
establishments were running in her head. She met girls at the high
school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standing
locally as partners or owners of solid businesses. These girls gave
themselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments from
whence they issued. They were the only ones of the school about whom
Jessica concerned herself.

Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already
connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He
contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was
thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some
ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, as
yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in and went
out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to his
mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, but
for the most part confining himself to those generalities with which
most conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his
desires for any one to see. He did not find any one in the house who
particularly cared to see.

Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured to
shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior
capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended
to that little conventional round of society of which she was not--but
longed to be--a member. She was not without realisation already
that this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her
daughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise
a little. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to
herself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing well
enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures should
prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small, but his
income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy was fixed.
Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal terms with
him.

The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to
all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were
of the same calibre.

"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., at the
dinner table one Friday evening.

"What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and
see how it works."

"How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.

"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy."

"Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.

"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura to Australia
now--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week."

"Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years ago they
had that basement in Madison Street."

"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring
in Robey Street."

"Just think of that!" said Jessica.

On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.

"I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.

"Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, without
rising.

"Yes," he said indifferently.

They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.
Presently the door clicked.

"I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.

The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.

"They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," she
reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."

"Are you?" said her mother.

"Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the
school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of
Portia."

"Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act."

"Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood
sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?"

"No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."

She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school,
many of whom were attracted by her beauty.

"What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "that
Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me."

"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a
student there. He hasn't anything."

The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of Blyford,
the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood was on the
third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and happened to look
out at the time.

"Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came
upstairs.

"It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.

"Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him," explained
Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.

"All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."

As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the
window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most satisfactory.

In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not
thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to
trouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and
sharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimes
by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at times by some
show of finery which supposedly made for dignity and social distinction.
The life of the resort which he managed was his life. There he spent
most of his time. When he went home evenings the house looked nice.
With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind that an
ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interested in the talk
of his son and daughter, who always looked well. The vanity of Mrs.
Hurstwood caused her to keep her person rather showily arrayed, but to
Hurstwood this was much better than plainness. There was no love lost
between them. There was no great feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion
on any subject was not startling. They did not talk enough together
to come to the argument of any one point. In the accepted and popular
phrase, she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet
a woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem
rather deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which
such an encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social
position and a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate his
home life, because it might affect his relations with his employers.
They wanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have
a dignified manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage.
Therefore he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in
the public ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,
and sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts, or those
near by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling
about conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of
it.

When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who had
money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It didn't do to
talk about those things. If it came up for discussion among such friends
as with him passed for close, he would deprecate the folly of the thing.
"It was all right to do it--all men do those things--but why wasn't he
careful? A man can't be too careful." He lost sympathy for the man that
made a mistake and was found out.

On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife
about--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not been
for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which did not
depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with considerable
curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way and men
looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and this
combination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a woman of
her home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence in the sex
was not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which would win the
confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As long as she loved
him vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that was
no longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.

During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a large
thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not to be
outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.
Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured.

"Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood one
morning.

Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before the
glass at the time.

"I thought she just bought one," he said.

"That was just something for evening wear," returned his wife
complacently.

"It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good deal
for dresses of late."

"Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of his
voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard there
before.

He was not a man who traveled much, but when he did, he had been
accustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a local
aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--a junket that
was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.

"Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was a
slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore
a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can have a good time."
His left eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "You want to come
along, George."

The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.

"I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."

"Where?" she asked, looking up.

"To Philadelphia, on business."

She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.

"I'll have to leave you behind this time."

"All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking that it
was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few more questions,
and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was a disagreeable
attachment.

On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over he
was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, and hated
thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole incident was
glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwood gave the subject
considerable thought. She drove out more, dressed better, and attended
theatres freely to make up for it.

Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home life. It
ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. With
the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and dryer--must
eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed.

In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties, the
nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration. Actions such
as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a
conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should be
good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed?

For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern naturalistic
philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of morals. There is
more in the subject than mere conformity to a law of evolution. It is
yet deeper than conformity to things of earth alone. It is more involved
than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain
wherefore some plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying;
make clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light
and rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first principles of
morals.

"Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."

"Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I have
lost?"

Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the true
answer to what is right.

In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was comfortably
established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by every wind and
gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour. Drouet had taken
three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing Union Park, on the West
Side. That was a little, green-carpeted breathing spot, than which,
to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded a vista
pleasant to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn of the
park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered. Over the
bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry wind, rose the
steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church, and far off the towers
of several others.

The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good Brussels
carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and representing
large jardinieres filled with gorgeous, impossible flowers. There was a
large pier-glass mirror between the two windows. A large, soft, green,
plush-covered couch occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs
were set about. Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of
bric-a-brac, and the tale of contents is told.

In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very becoming
designs. There was a third room for possible use as a kitchen, where
Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the
preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the like, of
which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole place was
cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers,
possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of
cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry
and natural love of order, which now developed, the place maintained an
air pleasing in the extreme.

Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of
certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with
many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned
about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been
a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw a
prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her mind, a
mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse.
Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.

"My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to her.

She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.

"You know it, don't you?" he would continue.

"Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact that
one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really did, that
she was vain enough to think so much of herself.

Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise. There
she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded, excused. It
was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last analysis. It was only an
average little conscience, a thing which represented the world, her past
environment, habit, convention, in a confused way. With it, the voice of
the people was truly the voice of God.

"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.

"Why?" she questioned.

"Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those who are
good. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at the good
girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know you have
been weak. You had not tried before you failed."

It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she
would be listening to this. It would come infrequently--when something
else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent,
when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in utterance at first,
but never wholly convincing. There was always an answer, always the
December days threatened. She was alone; she was desireful; she was
fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want made answer for her.

Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre
garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long
winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume
a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and
paper but add to the general solemnity of colour. There seems to be
something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow
thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor
artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all
refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much as the
poet, though they have not the same power of expression. The sparrow
upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary
load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of
all life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires
of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling
amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary
display within and without their establishments; if our streets were
not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying
purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of
winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which
the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are
more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insects
produced by heat, and pass without it.

In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert itself,
feebly and more feebly.

Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any
means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a
definite truth. When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of
ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away
entirely.

Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of
his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and when
he travelled took her with him. There were times when she would be
alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his
business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.

"Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come out
some day and spend the evening with us."

"Who is he?" asked Carrie doubtfully.

"Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."

"What's that?" said Carrie.

"The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place."

Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,
what her attitude would be.

"That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't know
anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now."

There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest
sensibilities.

"Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
promises he had made.

"Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal of
mine closed up."

He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow or
other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.

"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll do it."

Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to her
conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, things would be
righted. Her actions would be justified. She really was not enamoured of
Drouet. She was more clever than he. In a dim way, she was beginning to
see where he lacked. If it had not been for this, if she had not been
able to measure and judge him in a way, she would have been worse off
than she was. She would have adored him. She would have been utterly
wretched in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his
interest, of being swept away and left without an anchorage. As it
was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him
completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. She was not exactly
sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.

When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet
in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women which every
member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was not overbold.
His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those birds of
fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who
visited his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to
prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a pretty woman of any
refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest incentive. He
was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression that he wished to be of
service only--to do something which would make the lady more pleased.

Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the
candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which
Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too
assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art
of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced and
possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie he found a woman who
was all of the latter, but none of the former. He was lucky in the fact
that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were. A few years later,
with a little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had
not been able to approach Carrie at all.

"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling at
Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play."

Drouet had not thought of that.

"So we ought," he observed readily.

"Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.

"It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do very well
in a few weeks."

He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes were
particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood out with
that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The vest was of
a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round mother-of-pearl
buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of silken threads, not loud,
not inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly
as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the
material. Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a
dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not help feeling
that there was a distinction in favour of the soft leather, where all
else was so rich. She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They
were things which would naturally flow from the situation. She was used
to Drouet's appearance.

"Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood, after
a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in avoiding
everything that would suggest that he knew anything of Carrie's past. He
kept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself to those
things which did not concern individuals at all. By his manner, he put
Carrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her.
He pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.

"I don't know how to play," said Carrie.

"Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to Drouet
most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can show you."

By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There was
something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be there.
Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave him more
respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light, under
Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably.

"Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder very
deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment. "That's rather
good," he said.

"You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You take
my advice."

"Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I won't
stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp."

"No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win?"

Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The former
took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy himself.
Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.

"There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving
Carrie a chance to take a trick. "I count that clever playing for a
beginner."

The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was
as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.

He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild light in
his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and kindness.
He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it with one of
innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in
the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was doing a great
deal.

"It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something," he said
after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his
coat. "Let's play for dimes."

"All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills.

Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces.
"Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little stack.

"Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's bad."

"No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never play for more than that, you
will go to Heaven."

"Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until you see
what becomes of the money."

Drouet smiled.

"If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is."

Drouet laughed loud.

There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the
insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.

"When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet.

"On Wednesday," he replied.

"It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn't
it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.

"She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.

"You must both go with me to the theatre before you go."

"Certainly," said Drouet. "Eh, Carrie?"

"I'd like it ever so much," she replied.

Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced in
her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put
them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he
served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.

"Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his eyes,
"you must be ready at 7.30. I'll come and get you."

They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its red
lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.

"Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship, "when you
leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. It will
break up her loneliness."

"Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.

"You're so kind," observed Carrie.

"Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do as much
for me."

He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed. She
had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was equally
pleased.

"There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to their
cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too."

"He seems to be," said Carrie.

Carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways--of fortune's
superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring
how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that this is not
fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not so afflicted;
and on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed.
Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and
Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot of their
pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of the so-called
inanimate! Who shall translate for us the language of the stones?

"My dear," said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, "I fit you
beautifully; don't give me up."

"Ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes; "how
effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid."

Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of
giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude itself so
forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she
would not give them up. "Put on the old clothes--that torn pair of
shoes," was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could possibly
have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard
work and a narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of
conscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance?--be old-clothed and
poor-appearing?--never!

Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a
manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so
easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we desire.
In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He looked at her
admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the circumstances,
she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. She picked that
knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a habit, characteristic
of his kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the
street and remarking upon them. He had just enough of the feminine love
of dress to be a good judge--not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw
how they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what
grace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious
swaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of
rare wine to a toper. He would turn and follow the disappearing vision
with his eyes. He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion
that was in him. He loved the thing that women love in themselves,
grace. At this, their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.

"Did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to Carrie on the
first day they took a walk together. "Fine stepper, wasn't she?"

Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended.

"Yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of possible
defect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine, she must
look at it more closely. Instinctively, she felt a desire to imitate it.
Surely she could do that too.

When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and re-emphasized and
admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly. Drouet
was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. He could not
see that it would be better to make her feel that she was competing with
herself, not others better than herself. He would not have done it with
an older, wiser woman, but in Carrie he saw only the novice. Less clever
than she, he was naturally unable to comprehend her sensibility. He
went on educating and wounding her, a thing rather foolish in one whose
admiration for his pupil and victim was apt to grow.

Carrie took the instructions affably. She saw what Drouet liked; in a
vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinion of a
man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and generously
distributed. She sees but one object of supreme compliment in this
world, and that is herself. If a man is to succeed with many women, he
must be all in all to each.

In her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in the same
school.

In the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres, Mr.
Frank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his wife, a pleasing-looking
brunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sort very common in
America today, who live respectably from hand to mouth. Hale received
a salary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife, quite attractive,
affected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sort of home life
which means the care of a house and the raising of a family. Like Drouet
and Carrie, they also occupied three rooms on the floor above.

Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations with
her, and together they went about. For a long time this was her only
companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the medium
through which she saw the world. Such trivialities, such praises of
wealth, such conventional expression of morals as sifted through this
passive creature's mind, fell upon Carrie and for the while confused
her.

On the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. The
constant drag to something better was not to be denied. By those things
which address the heart was she steadily recalled. In the apartments
across the hall were a young girl and her mother. They were from
Evansville, Indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroad treasurer. The
daughter was here to study music, the mother to keep her company.

Carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter coming
in and going out. A few times she had seen her at the piano in the
parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. This young woman was
particularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelled ring or two
which flashed upon her white fingers as she played.

Now Carrie was affected by music. Her nervous composition responded
to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harp vibrate when a
corresponding key of a piano is struck. She was delicately moulded
in sentiment, and answered with vague ruminations to certain wistful
chords. They awoke longings for those things which she did not have.
They caused her to cling closer to things she possessed. One short song
the young lady played in a most soulful and tender mood. Carrie heard
it through the open door from the parlour below. It was at that hour
between afternoon and night when, for the idle, the wanderer, things are
apt to take on a wistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys
and returns with sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carrie sat at
her window looking out. Drouet had been away since ten in the morning.
She had amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which
Drouet had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and
by changing her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across
the park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and
life can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her new state,
the strain from the parlour below stole upward. With it her thoughts
became coloured and enmeshed. She reverted to the things which were best
and saddest within the small limit of her experience. She became for the
moment a repentant.

While she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him an entirely
different atmosphere. It was dusk and Carrie had neglected to light the
lamp. The fire in the grate, too, had burned low.

"Where are you, Cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her.

"Here," she answered.

There was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he could not
hear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman out under
such circumstances and console her for the tragedy of life. Instead, he
struck a match and lighted the gas.

"Hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying."

Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.

"Pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that."

He took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was
probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely.

"Come on, now," he went on; "it's all right. Let's waltz a little to
that music."

He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It made
clear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her. She could not
have framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made clear
the difference between them, but she felt it. It was his first great
mistake.

What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out evenings
accompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the nature and
value of those little modish ways which women adopt when they would
presume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up her
lips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she had seen
the railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirts with an
easy swing, for had not Drouet remarked that in her and several others,
and Carrie was naturally imitative. She began to get the hang of those
little things which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts.
In short, her knowledge of grace doubled, and with it her appearance
changed. She became a girl of considerable taste.

Drouet noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the new way of
arranging her locks which she affected one morning.

"You look fine that way, Cad," he said.

"Do I?" she replied, sweetly. It made her try for other effects that
selfsame day.

She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by her
attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful carriage. How
much influence the presence of that young woman in the same house had
upon her it would be difficult to say. But, because of all these things,
when Hurstwood called he had found a young woman who was much more than
the Carrie to whom Drouet had first spoken. The primary defects of dress
and manner had passed. She was pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity
born of uncertainty, and with a something childlike in her large eyes
which captured the fancy of this starched and conventional poser among
men. It was the ancient attraction of the fresh for the stale. If
there was a touch of appreciation left in him for the bloom and
unsophistication which is the charm of youth, it rekindled now. He
looked into her pretty face and felt the subtle waves of young life
radiating therefrom. In that large clear eye he could see nothing that
his blase nature could understand as guile. The little vanity, if he
could have perceived it there, would have touched him as a pleasant
thing.

"I wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how Drouet came to win
her."

He gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the first glance.

The cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps on
either hand. He folded his gloved hands and saw only the lighted chamber
and Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight of youthful beauty.

"I'll have a bouquet for her," he thought. "Drouet won't mind." He
never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for himself.
He troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority. He was merely
floating those gossamer threads of thought which, like the spider's,
he hoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, he could not guess,
what the result would be.

A few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one of his
well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from a short
trip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place and surprise
Carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation and soon
modified his original intention.

"Let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meeting which
might trouble his way.

"Certainly," said his companion.

They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It was
five in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before the last
bone was picked.

Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his
face was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught his own.
The latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouet and some
woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion.

"Ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous
sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl."

Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught Hurstwood's
eye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw that Hurstwood was
cautiously pretending not to see. Then some of the latter's impression
forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie and their last meeting.
By George, he would have to explain this to Hurstwood. Such a chance
half-hour with an old friend must not have anything more attached to it
than it really warranted.

For the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication of
which he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at him
for being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood. Carrie would
never hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yet he
could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it--there was
some faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. He broke up the
dinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. Then he went
home.

"He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thought
Hurstwood to himself. "He thinks I think he cares for the girl out
there."

"He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have just introduced
him out there," thought Drouet.

"I saw you," Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouet drifted in
to his polished resort, from which he could not stay away. He raised his
forefinger indicatively, as parents do to children.

"An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming up
from the station," explained Drouet. "She used to be quite a beauty."

"Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to jest.

"Oh, no," said Drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time."

"How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood.

"Only a few days."

"You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said.
"I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for Joe
Jefferson."

"Not me," answered the drummer. "Sure I'll come."

This pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Drouet no credit for any
feelings toward Carrie whatever. He envied him, and now, as he looked at
the well-dressed jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, the gleam of
the rival glowed in his eye. He began to "size up" Drouet from the
standpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to see where he was
weak. There was no disputing that, whatever he might think of him as a
good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt for him as a lover. He
could hoodwink him all right. Why, if he would just let Carrie see one
such little incident as that of Thursday, it would settle the matter.
He ran on in thought, almost exulting, the while he laughed and chatted,
and Drouet felt nothing. He had no power of analysing the glance and the
atmosphere of a man like Hurstwood. He stood and smiled and accepted the
invitation while his friend examined him with the eye of a hawk.

The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of
either. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer
conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from
either quarter. One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the
glass.

"Cad," said he, catching her, "I believe you're getting vain."

"Nothing of the kind," she returned, smiling.

"Well, you're mighty pretty," he went on, slipping his arm around her.
"Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I'll take you to the show."

"Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition to-night,"
she returned, apologetically.

"You did, eh?" he said, studying the situation abstractedly. "I wouldn't
care to go to that myself."

"Well, I don't know," answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to
break her promise in his favour.

Just then a knock came at their door and the maidservant handed a letter
in.

"He says there's an answer expected," she explained.

"It's from Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the superscription as he tore
it open.

"You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me to-night," it ran
in part. "It's my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are
off."

"Well, what do you say to this?" asked Drouet, innocently, while
Carrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies.

"You had better decide, Charlie," she said, reservedly.

"I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement upstairs,"
said Drouet.

"Oh, I can," returned Carrie without thinking.

Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress. She
hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to her
most.

"Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?" she asked, as she came out
with several articles of apparel pending.

"Sure," he returned, pleasantly.

She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her
willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It
seemed that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was
more agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed
herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses upstairs.

"I say," said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "we are
exceedingly charming this evening."

Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.

"Now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.

If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification of
the old term spick and span.

"Did you ever see Jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned toward Carrie
in the box.

"I never did," she returned.

"He's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplace
rendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a
programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he had
heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was really
hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance of
her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally met, and then
there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before
experienced. She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next
glance or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference,
mingled only with the kindest attention.

Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in comparison.
Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven into Carrie's
mind that here was the superior man. She instinctively felt that he was
stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the end of the third
act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly soul, but otherwise
defective. He sank every moment in her estimation by the strong
comparison.

"I have had such a nice time," said Carrie, when it was all over and
they were coming out.

"Yes, indeed," added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a
battle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like the
Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest
provinces were being wrested from him.

"Well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned Hurstwood.
"Good-night."

He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one to
the other.

"I'm so tired," said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet began
to talk.

"Well, you rest a little while I smoke," he said, rising, and then he
foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as
it stood.

Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral defections,
though she might readily have suspected his tendencies, which she well
understood. She was a woman upon whose action under provocation you
could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the slightest idea of
what she would do under certain circumstances. He had never seen her
thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a
passion. She had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were
erring. She was too calculating to jeopardize any advantage she might
gain in the way of information by fruitless clamour. Her wrath would
never wreak itself in one fell blow. She would wait and brood, studying
the details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate
with her desire for revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to
inflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her
revenge and still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She
was a cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which
never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye.

Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually
perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some satisfaction. He did
not fear her in the least--there was no cause for it. She still took a
faint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her social
integrity maintained. She was secretly somewhat pleased by the fact
that much of her husband's property was in her name, a precaution which
Hurstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more alluring
than at present. His wife had not the slightest reason to feel that
anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the shadows
which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and then. She
was in a position to become refractory with considerable advantage, and
Hurstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he felt that he could
not be sure of anything once she became dissatisfied.

It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and Drouet
were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the sixth row of the
parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third partner of a
wholesale dry-goods house of that city. Hurstwood did not see his son,
for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible, leaving himself
just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those within the
first six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way in every
theatre--to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it
would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.

He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being
misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted
the cost of every inch of conspicuity.

The next morning at breakfast his son said:

"I saw you, Governor, last night."

"Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the
world.

"Yes," said young George.

"Who with?"

"Miss Carmichael."

Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could
not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual look
into the theatre which was referred to.

"How was the play?" she inquired.

"Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing, 'Rip Van
Winkle.'"

"Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed indifference.

"Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's, visiting here."

Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this
would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for granted that
his situation called for certain social movements in which she might not
be included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on several occasions
when his wife asked for his company to any evening entertainment. He
had done so in regard to the very evening in question only the morning
before.

"I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very carefully.

"So I was," he exclaimed. "I couldn't help the interruption, but I made
up for it afterward by working until two."

This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue
of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at which the
claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. For
years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion, and found
her company dull. Now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this
older luminary paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his face away
entirely, and any call to look back was irksome.

She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less
than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though
the spirit might be wanting.

"We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few days
later. "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips and
his wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and we're going to show them
around a little."

After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the
Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make
them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when he left
the house.

"I'll put a stop to this," he thought. "I'm not going to be bothered
fooling around with visitors when I have work to do."

Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar proposition, only
it was to a matinee this time.

"My dear," he returned, "I haven't time. I'm too busy."

"You find time to go with other people, though," she replied, with
considerable irritation.

"Nothing of the kind," he answered. "I can't avoid business relations,
and that's all there is to it."

"Well, never mind," she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling of
mutual antagonism was increased.

On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew in an
almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the stress of
her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed effectively.
She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. The
glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She did not grow in
knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale's
extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her
to distinguish between degrees of wealth. Mrs. Hale loved to drive in
the afternoon in the sun when it was fine, and to satisfy her soul with
a sight of those mansions and lawns which she could not afford. On the
North Side had been erected a number of elegant mansions along what is
now known as the North Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and
granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid out,
the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses
were thoroughly new and imposing. When the winter season had passed and
the first fine days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale secured
a buggy for an afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first through
Lincoln Park and on far out towards Evanston, turning back at four and
arriving at the north end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock.
At this time of year the days are still comparatively short, and the
shadows of the evening were beginning to settle down upon the great
city. Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems
almost watery and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the
air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh
as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She was
ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove along the
smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw one stop and
the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to
be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across the broad
lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps faintly glowing
upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a table, now an ornate
corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost nothing else
could. Such childish fancies as she had had of fairy palaces and kingly
quarters now came back. She imagined that across these richly carved
entrance-ways, where the globed and crystalled lamps shone upon panelled
doors set with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor
unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly certain that here was happiness.
If she could but stroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way,
which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury
to possession and command--oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in
an instant, would the heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering,
delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful
was whispering in her ear.

"If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly, "how
delightful it would be."

"And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy."

She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox.

"I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard, though, to
take their misery in a mansion."

When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive
they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had,
but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was
still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears.
What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she thought it
over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park toward
the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues. She was too wrought
up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing.
Some old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank.
She longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old cottage room in
Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine
dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond
measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally, it seemed as
if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could
scarce refrain from trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the
moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as
happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be.

While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought
up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour asking to see
Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.

"I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thought Carrie.

She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter,
but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another,
principally by the strong impression he had made. She was quite
disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied
herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.

Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that Drouet
was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and
devoted himself to the more general topics which would interest Carrie.
It was surprising--the ease with which he conducted a conversation. He
was like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he
has sympathy. He knew that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and,
without the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which
absorbed her fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to
such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined
himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures.
He had been here and there, he had seen this and that. Somehow he made
Carrie wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of
himself. She could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality
and presence for a moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling
emphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would
draw out, with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand
for emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere
which suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to
make her clever. At least, she brightened under his influence until all
her best side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with him
than with others. At least, he seemed to find so much in her to applaud.
There was not the slightest touch of patronage. Drouet was full of it.

There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting between
them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent, that Carrie
could not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. She was
no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. It was
always a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. Each time there
had been no sentence of importance which she could relate, and as for
the glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such things
had never been between her and Drouet. As a matter of fact, they could
never be. She had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces
of relief which Drouet represented at an opportune moment when she
yielded to him. Now she was persuaded by secret current feelings which
Drouet had never understood. Hurstwood's glance was as effective as
the spoken words of a lover, and more. They called for no immediate
decision, and could not be answered.

People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under
the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter of fact,
words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They
but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which
lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart
listens.

In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of
the things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his
appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The
growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand. She
did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she did not
need to worry over what other people would say--what she herself
would say--because it had no tangibility. She was being pleaded with,
persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet
there were no words to prove it. Such conversation as was indulged in
held the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain
that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which
it is used to cover.

"Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North Side?"
asked Hurstwood.

"Why, I was just over there this afternoon--Mrs. Hale and I. Aren't they
beautiful?"

"They're very fine," he answered.

"Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively. "I wish I could live in such a place."

"You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.

He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He assumed
that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to say a word
in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his steady gaze.
He felt the critical character of the period. She endeavoured to stir,
but it was useless. The whole strength of a man's nature was working. He
had good cause to urge him on. He looked and looked, and the longer the
situation lasted the more difficult it became. The little shop-girl was
getting into deep water. She was letting her few supports float away
from her.

"Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that."

"I can't help it," he answered.

She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength.

"You are not satisfied with life, are you?"

"No," she answered, weakly.

He saw he was the master of the situation--he felt it. He reached over
and touched her hand.

"You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up.

"I didn't intend to," he answered, easily.

She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not terminate the
interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the
readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she felt that he
was in power. "You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will
straighten out in the course of time."

She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.

"We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand.

"Yes," she answered.

"Not a word, then, until I see you again."

He retained a hold on her hand.

"I can't promise," she said, doubtfully.

"You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple way
that she was touched.

"Let's not talk about it any more," she returned.

"All right," he said, brightening.

He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door and
ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the
mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently
bought.

"I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling of
trouble and shame. "I don't seem to do anything right."

She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown
waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.

"I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do."

"Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right; that I
know."

The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his office
an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.

It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and Hurstwood
in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his appearance. He had
been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her leniency had, in a way,
inflamed his regard. He felt that he must succeed with her, and that
speedily.

The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than
mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been withering
in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable that Carrie
represented a better order of woman than had ever attracted him before.
He had had no love affair since that which culminated in his marriage,
and since then time and the world had taught him how raw and erroneous
was his original judgment. Whenever he thought of it, he told himself
that, if he had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman.
At the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened his
respect for the sex. He maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded
on numerous experiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly
one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not
inspiring to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace
nature which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of that
under-world where grovel the beat-men of society (and he knew a
great deal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with
suspicion--a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He followed
them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was not so
dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally, he did not
attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He would take off
his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the vicious in her
presence--much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall will humble himself
before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to charity with a willing and
reverent hand. But he would not think much upon the question of why he
did so.

A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or
hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul, is
apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness, or to
draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery. It is only
by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near such a girl.
They have no method, no understanding of how to ingratiate themselves
in youthful favour, save when they find virtue in the toils. If,
unfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net, the spider can come
forth and talk business upon its own terms. So when maidenhood has
wandered into the moil of the city, when it is brought within the circle
of the "rounder" and the roue, even though it be at the outermost rim,
they can come forth and use their alluring arts.

Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage of
fine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to indulge in
an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer
forever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted him.
In the mild light of Carrie's eye was nothing of the calculation of
the mistress. In the diffident manner was nothing of the art of the
courtesan. He saw at once that a mistake had been made, that some
difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature into his
presence, and his interest was enlisted. Here sympathy sprang to the
rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. He wanted to win Carrie
because he thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were
united with Drouet's. He envied the drummer his conquest as he had never
envied any man in all the course of his experience.

Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,
mentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village, the
light of the country still in her eye. Here was neither guile nor
rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they
were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy.
She still looked about her upon the great maze of the city without
understanding. Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. He picked her as
he would the fresh fruit of a tree. He felt as fresh in her presence as
one who is taken out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of
spring.

Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one
with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental
conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up.
She owed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not seem more than
yesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed. She
had the kindliest feelings for him in every way. She gave him credit
for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed
to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any
binding influence keeping her for him as against all others. In fact,
such a thought had never had any grounding, even in Drouet's desires.

The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all enduring
relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy. He went
merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection followed
tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly for his
pleasure. When he missed some old face, or found some door finally shut
to him, it did not grieve him deeply. He was too young, too successful.
He would remain thus young in spirit until he was dead.

As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning
Carrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but he was determined to
make her confess an affection for him. He thought he saw in her drooping
eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding
passion. He wanted to stand near her and make her lay her hand in
his--he wanted to find out what her next step would be--what the next
sign of feeling for him would be. Such anxiety and enthusiasm had not
affected him for years. He was a youth again in feeling--a cavalier in
action.

In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was excellent.
He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man who commanded the
confidence of his employers in so far as the distribution of his time
was concerned. He could take such hours off as he chose, for it was well
known that he fulfilled his managerial duties successfully, whatever
time he might take. His grace, tact, and ornate appearance gave the
place an air which was most essential, while at the same time his long
experience made him a most excellent judge of its stock necessities.
Bartenders and assistants might come and go, singly or in groups, but,
so long as he was present, the host of old-time customers would barely
notice the change. He gave the place the atmosphere to which they were
used. Consequently, he arranged his hours very much to suit himself,
taking now an afternoon, now an evening, but invariably returning
between eleven and twelve to witness the last hour or two of the day's
business and look after the closing details.

"You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when you go
home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never once, in all
the period of his long service, neglected to do this. Neither of the
owners had for years been in the resort after five in the afternoon, and
yet their manager as faithfully fulfilled this request as if they had
been there regularly to observe.

On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous visit, he
made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away longer.

"Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one calls, I
will be back between four and five."

He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which carried him
to Ogden Place in half an hour.

Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light grey
woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had out her hat
and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about her throat when the
housemaid brought up the information that Mr. Hurstwood wished to see
her.

She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to say that
she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten her dressing.

Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was glad
or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence. She
was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it was more
nervousness than either fear or favour. She did not try to conjecture
what the drift of the conversation would be. She only felt that she must
be careful, and that Hurstwood had an indefinable fascination for her.
Then she gave her tie its last touch with her fingers and went below.

The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nerves by
the thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt that he must make
a strong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come, and
he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. He sank
a little in determination, for he was not so sure, after all, what her
opinion might be.

When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage. She
looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring of any lover.
Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own.

"How are you?" he said, easily. "I could not resist the temptation to
come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant."

"Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing to go for
a walk myself."

"Oh, were you?" he said. "Supposing, then, you get your hat and we both
go?"

They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,
beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses
set back from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the more
prosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood could not
help feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They had gone but a few
blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved the
difficulty for him. He would take her to drive along the new Boulevard.

The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road. The part
he intended showing her was much farther out on this same West Side,
where there was scarcely a house. It connected Douglas Park with
Washington or South Park, and was nothing more than a neatly MADE road,
running due south for some five miles over an open, grassy prairie, and
then due east over the same kind of prairie for the same distance. There
was not a house to be encountered anywhere along the larger part of the
route, and any conversation would be pleasantly free of interruption.

At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of range
of either public observation or hearing.

"Can you drive?" he said, after a time.

"I never tried," said Carrie.

He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms.

"You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly.

"Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie.

"You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little practice," he
added, encouragingly.

He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation when
he could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held his peace,
hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour of his own,
but she had lightly continued the subject. Presently, however, his
silence controlled the situation. The drift of his thoughts began to
tell. He gazed fixedly at nothing in particular, as if he were thinking
of something which concerned her not at all. His thoughts, however,
spoke for themselves. She was very much aware that a climax was pending.

"Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in years
since I have known you?"

"Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by the
conviction which the tone of his voice carried.

"I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but somehow the
opportunity slipped away."

Carrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could think of
nothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas concerning right
which had troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she was now
influenced again strongly in his favour.

"I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just how I
feel--to see if you wouldn't listen to me."

Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He was capable
of strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stress of desire,
such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, his feelings and his
voice were coloured with that seeming repression and pathos which is the
essence of eloquence.

"You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a strange
silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?" Carrie did not
stir at the words. She was bound up completely in the man's atmosphere.
He would have churchlike silence in order to express his feelings, and
she kept it. She did not move her eyes from the flat, open scene before
her. Hurstwood waited for a few moments, and then repeated the words.

"You must not say that," she said, weakly.

Her words were not convincing at all. They were the result of a feeble
thought that something ought to be said. He paid no attention to them
whatever.

"Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic familiarity, "I
want you to love me. You don't know how much I need some one to waste a
little affection on me. I am practically alone. There is nothing in my
life that is pleasant or delightful. It's all work and worry with people
who are nothing to me."

As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was
pitiful. He had the ability to get off at a distance and view himself
objectively--of seeing what he wanted to see in the things which made up
his existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice trembled with that peculiar
vibration which is the result of tensity. It went ringing home to his
companion's heart.

"Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes which were
full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very happy. You know so
much of the world."

"That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I know too
much of the world."

It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned and
powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling the
strangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while,
the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and
the city, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was this greatest
mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her, appealing
to her. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was great, his
position high, his clothing rich, and yet he was appealing to her. She
could formulate no thought which would be just and right. She troubled
herself no more upon the matter. She only basked in the warmth of his
feeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold. Hurstwood
glowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his passion was already
melting the wax of his companion's scruples.

"You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain? If you
were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing about you,
if you went day after day to a place where there was nothing but show
and indifference, if there was not one person in all those you knew to
whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps you
would be unhappy too."

He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in her
own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were
indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing
about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone? Who
was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for sympathy?
Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder.

"I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love me. If
I had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply move about
from place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavily on my
hands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift into anything
that offered itself. Since you came--well, I've had you to think about."

The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began to grow
in Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. To think
that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her; that he
needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely and without
anchor. Surely, this was too bad.

"I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to her to
explain on this score. "You think, probably, that I roam around, and get
into all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless, but I could easily
come out of that. I need you to draw me back, if my life ever amounts to
anything."

Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels in
its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need reclaiming? His
errors, what were they, that she could correct? Small they must be,
where all was so fine. At worst, they were gilded affairs, and with what
leniency are gilded errors viewed. He put himself in such a lonely light
that she was deeply moved.

"Is it that way?" she mused.

He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart to
draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A breath of
soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some brown
twigs of the previous autumn before it. The horse paced leisurely on,
unguided.

"Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."

Her eyes fell consciously.

"Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?"

She made no answer, but he felt his victory.

"Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were
near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to touch
her cheek.

"You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.

For answer, her lips replied.

"Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl,
aren't you?"

By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.

Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and
mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and
his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting
Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy,
that she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the need
of it was the cause.

Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.

"Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man when her
husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her."

The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought on
this score. The housemaid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her opinion
also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took to be cold
and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the merry and
easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then, and
in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had for
all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved and critical in
his manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same
pleasant way. She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs. Drouet
should go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was absent.
She gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was. As a
result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the house in
that secret manner common to gossip.

Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to confess
her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him.
Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of the
dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her.
On the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the
afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had ever been thoroughly
aroused, and they threw a new light on her character. She had some
power of initiative, latent before, which now began to exert itself. She
looked more practically upon her state and began to see glimmerings of
a way out. Hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of honour. Her
feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they constructed out
of these recent developments something which conquered freedom from
dishonour. She had no idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She
only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more
generous results accordingly.

As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without responsibility.
He did not feel that he was doing anything to complicate his life. His
position was secure, his home-life, if not satisfactory, was at least
undisturbed, his personal liberty rather untrammelled. Carrie's love
represented only so much added pleasure. He would enjoy this new gift
over and above his ordinary allowance of pleasure. He would be happy
with her and his own affairs would go on as they had, undisturbed.

On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in
East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a
pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th Street.
In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie took
his love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept him at
a distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender
tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover.
Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and
deferred pressing his suit too warmly.

Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had to
carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a little distance.
How far he could not guess.

They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:

"When will I see you again?"

"I don't know," she answered, wondering herself.

"Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?"

She shook her head.

"Not so soon," she answered.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he added. "I'll write you, care of this
West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?"

Carrie assented.

The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.

"Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away.

Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet
returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next
afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.

"Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?"

"Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.

Hurstwood arose.

"Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?"

They began talking of the people they knew and things that had happened.

"Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.

"No, I am going, though," said Drouet.

"I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "and called
once. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone."

"Right you are," agreed Drouet. "How is she?"

"Very well," said Hurstwood. "Rather anxious about you though. You'd
better go out now and cheer her up."

"I will," said Drouet, smilingly.

"Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me Wednesday,"
concluded Hurstwood at parting.

"Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says and let
you know."

They separated in the most cordial manner.

"There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turned the
corner towards Madison.

"Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he went back
into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie."

The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein, and
he wandered how he would get ahead of the drummer.

When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms as
usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition.

"Well," he said, "I had a great trip."

"Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were telling
me about?"

"Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,
representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't in
it. I made him look like nothing at all."

As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing
his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. Carrie
could not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions.

"I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office. I've sold
more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the
road. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse."

He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he
rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him
with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was still
wiping his face, when he continued:

"I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it, as
much business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget."

"I hope you do," said Carrie.

"And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes through,
we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness, the while
he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair.

"I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carrie said
ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her courage to
say this.

"Oh, yes I do--course I do--what put that into your head?"

He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to
her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from him.

"But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her pretty
face upturned into his.

"Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to.
Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things all
right, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie."

He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how really
futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this easy-going
soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply letting things drift
because he preferred the free round of his present state to any legal
trammellings.

In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy
manner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what
her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.

"Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own
success and more of her helplessness, "you never will."

"Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "I'll marry you
all right."

Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for something
which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy
disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully promised to
marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.

"Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the
marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to the
theatre with him."

Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid
notice.

"When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.

"Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?"

"If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly reserved
as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something but he thought
it was due to her feelings concerning their talk about marriage. "He
called once, he said."

"Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening."

"Was he?" said Drouet. "I thought from what he said that he had called a
week or so ago."

"So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what
conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea mentally,
and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would
answer.

"Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade of
misunderstanding showing in his face.

"Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must have
mentioned but one call.

Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did not
attach particular importance to the information, after all.

"What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased
curiosity.

"He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn't been
in there so long he wondered what had become of you."

"George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by his
conception of the manager's interest. "Come on and we'll go out to
dinner."

When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to Carrie,
saying:

"I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not say
how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything you may
have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and, darling,
I must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jackson and Throop
Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speak with you
before we meet at the theatre."

Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West Side
branch of the post-office, and answered at once.

"I said you called twice," she wrote. "He didn't seem to mind. I will
try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be getting
very bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know."

Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.

"You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "Just as soon as he goes on
the road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so that you won't
have to deceive any one."

Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not
directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the best of
the situation until Drouet left again.

"Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," Hurstwood
counselled concerning the evening at the theatre.

"You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of the
power of his eyes.

"I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance
she had just cautioned against.

"There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.

"The show hasn't begun yet," he returned.

He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth and
prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.

At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour. If he
had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now. His
grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. Carrie
watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot poor Drouet,
who babbled on as if he were the host.

Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change.
He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual,
and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in
favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. If
anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not
cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.

Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to Drouet
alone.

The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened to the
seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.

"Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen
expiation of her error. "I haven't any pity for a man who would be such
a chump as that."

"Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently. "He probably
thought he was right."

"Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he
wants to keep her."

They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy
crush about the entrance way.

"Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mind giving
me the price of a bed?"

Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.

"Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep."

The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the
picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see.
He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart.
Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.

The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth
of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related to his
family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast with
his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far
without the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was
heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by
his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of
indifference.

Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.
There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth
in the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to
experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's feet.
When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her
eyes were young.

When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when
the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale
practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which bound
his feet.

"George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long
since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want you to
get us a season ticket to the races."

"Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising inflection.

"Yes," she answered.

The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the South
Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who did not
affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs. Hurstwood had
never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain
considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing, one of her
neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of money,
made out of the coal business, had done so. In the next place, her
favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and
betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a
two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit
Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to
marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things
and parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an
incentive as anything.

Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.
They were in the sitting room on the second floor, waiting for supper.
It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see "The
Covenant," which had brought him home to make some alterations in his
dress.

"You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked, hesitating
to say anything more rugged.

"No," she replied impatiently.

"Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get mad
about it. I'm just asking you."

"I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a season ticket."

"And I'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her,
"that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager will
give it to me."

He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the race-track
magnates.

"We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply.

"You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs one hundred and
fifty dollars."

"I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I want the
ticket and that's all there is to it."

She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.

"Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone of
voice.

As usual, the table was one short that evening.

The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket
was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not mind giving
his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not like to be
forced to provide against his will.

"Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers are
getting ready to go away?"

"No. Where, I wonder?"

"Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me. She
just put on more airs about it."

"Did she say when?"

"Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again--they always
do."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of these
days."

Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.

"'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed, mocking her
acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" in France,'--vain
thing. As If it was anything to go to Europe."

"It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood.

It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.

"Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day, thus
revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.

"Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never before been kept
in ignorance concerning departures.

"He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight put
upon her father.

"What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think
that he should be made to pump for information in this manner.

"A tennis match," said Jessica.

"He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it
difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.

"I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. In the
past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which was a
compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in part still
existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As it was, it
did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The TONE was always
modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection, and now he saw
that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge was no longer
intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not. He
heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. Some days he found
that he was all at sea as to what they were talking about--things they
had arranged to do or that they had done in his absence. More affecting
was the feeling that there were little things going on of which he no
longer heard. Jessica was beginning to feel that her affairs were her
own. George, Jr., flourished about as if he were a man entirely and must
needs have private matters. All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a
trace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in his official
position, at least--and felt that his importance should not begin
to wane here. To darken it all, he saw the same indifference and
independence growing in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills.

He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he was
not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house, but
he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into her
comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such
delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when Drouet
was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cosey little
quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby Drouet would be
led to inform Carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful.
Things were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change.
Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory.

The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--a
letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He was
not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing
affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at his
office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of delicately
coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept locked
in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the cleric and very
official-looking nature of his position. The five bartenders viewed with
respect the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and
penmanship.

Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law which
governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began to feel
those subtleties which he could find words to express. With every
expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings which
there found words took hold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy of all
the affection he could there express.

Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command
that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. Experience had
not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of
the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid lustre no suggestion
of the knowledge of disappointment. She had been troubled in a way by
doubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could be
traced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. The mouth had
the expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might be
upon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus ever present.
The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity
of formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself.

There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her
domination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of some
women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently powerful to
move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance, but there was
that in what she had already experienced which left her a little less
than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was
confused as to what these things might be. Every hour the kaleidoscope
of human affairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith it
became for her the desired--the all. Another shift of the box, and some
other had become the beautiful, the perfect.

On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a nature
well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle--an
uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She was
constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who
slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor. The
poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings, hurrying home
from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from the depths of
her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her
little head and wondering. They had so little, she thought. It was so
sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded clothes pained her eyes.

"And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.

On the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen with picks,
coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about some work
which was a mere matter of strength--and they touched her fancy. Toil,
now that she was free of it, seemed even a more desolate thing than when
she was part of it. She saw it through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre
half-light, which was the essence of poetic feeling. Her old father,
in his flour-dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory,
revived by a face in a window. A shoemaker pegging at his last, a
blastman seen through a narrow window in some basement where iron was
being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some window, his coat
off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back in fancy to the details
of the mill. She felt, though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts
upon this score. Her sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil
from which she had so recently sprung, and which she best understood.

Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose feelings
were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know, but it was this
in her, after all, which attracted him. He never attempted to analyse
the nature of his affection. It was sufficient that there was tenderness
in her eye, weakness in her manner, good nature and hope in her
thoughts. He drew near this lily, which had sucked its waxen beauty and
perfume from below a depth of waters which he had never penetrated,
and out of ooze and mould which he could not understand. He drew near
because it was waxen and fresh. It lightened his feelings for him. It
made the morning worth while.

In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness had
all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as
pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her smartly
and had high heels. She had learned much about laces and those little
neckpieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form had
filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.

Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson
Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,
even when Drouet was at home.

The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had
found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which
bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year when the
fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little pond near by
some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats. In the
shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his
arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old gardener was upon the
lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes. High
overhead was the clean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness
of the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy
sparrows.

Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the
same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no need to
write. He had come away to this place with the lightness of heart which
characterises those who put weariness behind. Now, in the shade of this
cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the lover. He
heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they
were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The hum of the surrounding
city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music. He looked
and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his present fixed
condition not at all. He got back in fancy to the old Hurstwood, who was
neither married nor fixed in a solid position for life. He remembered
the light spirit in which he once looked after the girls--how he had
danced, escorted them home, hung over their gates. He almost wished he
was back there again--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were
wholly free.

At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean.
She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of
pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue material,
and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin-stripe of blue upon a
snow-white ground--stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her brown shoes
peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried her gloves in
her hand.

Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.

"You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking
her hand.

"Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?"

"I didn't know," he replied.

He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then he
took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and touched her
face here and there.

"Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."

They were happy in being near one another--in looking into each other's
eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had sub sided, he said:

"When is Charlie going away again?"

"I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to do for the
house here now."

Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He looked up
after a time to say:

"Come away and leave him."

He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were of
little importance.

"Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling her
gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.

"Where do you want to go?" he enquired.

There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her
feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.

"We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.

He had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal would be
suggested.

"Why not?" he asked softly.

"Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."

He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. It had no
serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate decision.

"I would have to give up my position," he said.

The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight
consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty
scene.

"I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said, thinking of
Drouet.

"It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as good as
moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side."

He had fixed upon that region as an objective point.

"Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long as he is
here. I wouldn't want to run away."

The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly
that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be gotten over
easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a
moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. He
could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. When
he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it was to
have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased in value in
his eyes because of her objection. She was something to struggle for,
and that was everything. How different from the women who yielded
willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.

"And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly.

She shook her head.

He sighed.

"You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a few
moments, looking up into her eyes.

She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at
what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who could feel this
concerning her.

"No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"

Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street.

"I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don't like to
be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting? You're not any
happier, are you?"

"Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that."

"Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our days. If
you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to you the biggest
part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," he exclaimed, throwing
sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes,
"I can't live without you, and that's all there is to it. Now," he
concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of
at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall I do?"

This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance of
the load without the weight touched the woman's heart.

"Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll try and
find out when he's going."

"What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of feeling.

"Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."

She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting
into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields.

Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be
persuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to
wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was thinking of
some question which would make her tell.

Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often
disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the
difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way. It
had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and
was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious thought.

"Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look
which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, or this
week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you I had to go away--that
I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more--would
you come with me?" His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate
glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.

"Yes," she said.

"You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?"

"Not if you couldn't wait."

He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a
chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. He had
a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet
seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. He let it stand.

"Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an
afterthought striking him.

"If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it
would be all right."

"I meant that," he said.

"Yes."

The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered whatever
could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it was, he
could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she loved him.
There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her.

"Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these
evenings," and then he laughed.

"I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrie added
reflectively.

"I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.

She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the
more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the marriage
clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with such
affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.

"Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely
park.

"All right," said Carrie.

They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes.

"'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich."

In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slight
attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last trip
he had received a new light on its importance.

"I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Look at
Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good house
behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree. He's
a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret sign that
stands for something."

Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such
matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodge
headquarters.

"I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was very
prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man that can
help us out."

It was after the business meeting and things were going socially with
a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of
individuals whom he knew.

"What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon
his secret brother.

"We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from to-day,
and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take a
part--it's an easy part."

"Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember
that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innate
good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.

"Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.
Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.
There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we
thought we would raise it by a little entertainment."

"Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea."

"Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry
Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at heavy
dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?"

"Never did."

"Well, I tell you, he does it fine."

"And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned Drouet,
anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. "What are
you going to play?"

"'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's
famous production, which had worn from a great public success down to an
amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessories
cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the smallest possible
number.

Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.

"That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. You
ought to make a lot of money out of that."

"We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't you forget
now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some young
woman to take the part of Laura."

"Sure, I'll attend to it."

He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel had
ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.

Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of
a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following
Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady's
address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her.

"Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,
scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anything about
amateur theatricals."

He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and
finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of her
home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out that
evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the car
he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the
"Evening News"--a small three-line affair under the head of Secret
Society Notes--which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks would
give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when "Under the
Gaslight" would be produced.

"George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that."

"What?" inquired Carrie.

They were at their little table in the room which might have been used
for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal. To-night the
fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasing
repast.

"Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they
wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part."

"What is it they're going to play?"

"'Under the Gaslight.'"

"When?"

"On the 16th."

"Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie.

"I don't know any one," he replied.

Suddenly he looked up.

"Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?"

"Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act."

"How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively.

"Because," answered Carrie, "I never did."

Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes
brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies it
was the art of the stage. True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea
as an easy way out.

"That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there."

"No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the
proposition and yet fearful.

"Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and it will
be lots of fun for you."

"Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously.

"You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around here
and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever enough,
all right."

"No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly.

"Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll be
fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good. They
haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?"

He frowned as he thought of their ignorance.

"Hand me the coffee," he added.

"I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly. "You
don't think I could, do you?"

"Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I know
you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you."

"What is the play, did you say?"

"'Under the Gaslight.'"

"What part would they want me to take?"

"Oh, one of the heroines--I don't know."

"What sort of a play is it?"

"Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best,
"it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks--a man and
a woman that live in the slums. She had some money or something and they
wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go exactly."

"Don't you know what part I would have to take?"

"No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do, too.
Laura, that's the thing--you're to be Laura."

"And you can't remember what the part is like?"

"To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seen
the play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was an
infant--was picked off the street or something--and she's the one that's
hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." He stopped
with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face. "She comes very
near getting drowned--no, that's not it. I'll tell you what I'll do," he
concluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. I can't remember now for
the life of me."

"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her interest
and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity for the
mastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right."

"Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to enthuse
Carrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come home here and
urge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a success
of? You can act all right. It'll be good for you."

"When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively.

"The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for you
to-night."

"All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make a
failure now it's your fault."

"You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here. Be
natural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a corking good
actress."

"Did you really?" asked Carrie.

"That's right," said the drummer.

He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret
flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie was
possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever in the
most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was created
with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of the active
world. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no small ability.
Even without practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic situations
she had witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the expressions of
the various faces taking part in the scene. She loved to modulate her
voice after the conventional manner of the distressed heroine, and
repeat such pathetic fragments as appealed most to her sympathies. Of
late, seeing the airy grace of the ingenue in several well-constructed
plays, she had been moved to secretly imitate it, and many were the
little movements and expressions of the body in which she indulged from
time to time in the privacy of her chamber. On several occasions, when
Drouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror,
she was doing nothing more than recalling some little grace of the
mouth or the eyes which she had witnessed in another. Under his airy
accusation she mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a
faint sense of error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more
than the first subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring
to re-create the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed
to her. In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of
desire to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.

Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic
ability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which
welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those
floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,
concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of
hope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt that
she could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she looked
at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she would
look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their place. The
glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause, these had
lured her until she felt that she, too, could act--that she, too,
could compel acknowledgment of power. Now she was told that she really
could--that little things she had done about the house had made even him
feel her power. It was a delightful sensation while it lasted.

When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window to
think about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the possibilities
for her. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand and she had
exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw herself in a
score of pathetic situations in which she assumed a tremulous voice and
suffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury and
refinement, situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, the
arbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity
of woe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception, the
languour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts of all the charming women she
had seen in plays--every fancy, every illusion which she had concerning
the stage--now came back as a returning tide after the ebb. She built up
feelings and a determination which the occasion did not warrant.

Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed
around with a great AIR, as Quincel met him.

"Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked the
latter.

"I've got her," said Drouet.

"Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness; "that's
good. What's her address?" and he pulled out his notebook in order to be
able to send her part to her.

"You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer.

"Yes."

"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning.

"What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have any
information to send her."

"Twenty-nine Ogden Place."

"And her name?"

"Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge members
knew him to be single.

"That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel.

"Yes, it does."

He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner of
one who does a favour.

"He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?"

"I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that I've
said I would."

"Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company. The
rest of them aren't as good as you are."

"Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her
misgivings.

He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to make his
next remark.

"They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and I gave
them the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?"

"Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She was
thinking it was slightly strange.

"If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on.

"Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It was
clever for Drouet.

"I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse
then if you didn't GO. They all know me so well. But you'll GO all
right. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again."

"Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determined now to
have a try at the fascinating game.

Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was about
to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question.

The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it, was
one of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true to
the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he began
his career. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the long,
explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there.

"Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her voice
out pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of wine before
he goes."

She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing that
she must be on the stage while others were talking, and not only be
there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic movement of
the scenes.

"I think I can do that, though," she concluded.

When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with her
day's study.

"Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said.

"All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorised nearly."

"That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it."

"Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she said
bashfully.

"Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than it will
there."

"I don't know about that," she answered. Eventually she took off the
ballroom episode with considerable feeling, forgetting, as she got
deeper in the scene, all about Drouet, and letting herself rise to a
fine state of feeling.

"Good," said Drouet; "fine, out o' sight! You're all right Caddie, I
tell you."

He was really moved by her excellent representation and the general
appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and finally
fainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and now held her
laughing in his arms.

"Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked.

"Not a bit."

"Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything like
that."

"I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with
delight.

"Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can take my
word for that. You won't fail."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Hurstwood's family is introduced in this chapter, including his seventeen year old daughter Jessica, his twenty year old son George, Jr. and his wife Julia. The family lives in a ten room house but is clearly not a part of the upper classes. Mrs. Hurstwood, we are told, is relying on her children to become part of the elite upper classes and provide her with great social status. Hurstwood's wife is described as being rather dull, but efficient at keeping the house. Dreiser remarks that occasionally Hurstwood would meet a young girl who make Julia seem lacking, but that he had never desired to change his lifestyle. Hurstwood also has no sympathy for other men in the middle classes who for some reason lose their wealth. He shakes his head and comments that a man cannot be too careful. A story is related in which Hurstwood was invited to go to Philadelphia with another man. He did not take his wife along the way he usually did, and she became suspicious of what he was doing there. The story hints that Hurstwood was spending time with other women, something Julia must have guessed. After Hurstwood's return, Julia started dressing better and going out more, spending time at theaters, and we can guess that she herself might have another man taking care of her. Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16