prompt:
Chapter: Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident
that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York. In
Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires were
not numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown
all moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the inhabitants
was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic,
social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from
view. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade.
In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been
diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous.
The sea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear
wholly from view--remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.

There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which, though
not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the world.
The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the small.
This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the magnificent
residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops, restaurants,
resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the wines; drink
of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious content, of the
glances which gleam like light from defiant spears; feel the quality
of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of
place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high
and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of
greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the human
heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must attain, so
long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of greatness. So long,
also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its desperate results in
the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent. One day of it, like one
drop of the other, will so affect and discolour the views, the aims, the
desire of the mind, that it will thereafter remain forever dyed. A day
of it to the untried mind is like opium to the untried body. A craving
is set up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and
death. Aye! dreams unfulfilled--gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which
beckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve
their power and restore us blind to nature's heart.

A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the illusions
and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength of hope
which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. Such an atmosphere
could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen, but in so far
as they were excited, the lack of hope made them proportionately bitter.
He could not fail to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every
hand. He had been to New York before and knew the resources of its
folly. In part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all
that he most respected on this earth--wealth, place, and fame. The
majority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day
as manager hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most
inviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and
individuals here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was
brushing elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or
five hundred thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than
comfortably in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample
sums, so that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite
sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of
his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle
for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he was not so
dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a sudden, then, this
show of fine clothes, place, and power took on peculiar significance. It
was emphasised by contrast with his own distressing state.

And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of arrest
was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger dissolved, the
next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry sum of thirteen
hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing,
food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated
to induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five
times that sum in the course of a year. He thought upon the subject
rather actively the first few days he was in New York, and decided
that he must act quickly. As a consequence, he consulted the business
opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations
on his own account.

That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he went
looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in Seventy-eighth Street
near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story building, and their flat was
on the third floor. Owing to the fact that the street was not yet built
up solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the trees
in Central Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse
of which was to be had out of the west windows. For the privilege of six
rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were compelled to pay
thirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a
home at the time. Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the
rooms here and in Chicago and mentioned it.

"You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you
go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of
these conveniences."

Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright
wood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,
which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,
dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her
very much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great
satisfaction in these things.

Hurstwood made arrangements with one of the instalment houses whereby
they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and
ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G. W.
Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It sounded
exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the janitor, but
in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as her own.

These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the advertised
opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town
bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not stomach the
commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a number of days
looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did, however, gain
considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of
Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with the police. The most
profitable and flourishing places he found to be those which conducted
anything but a legitimate business, such as that controlled by
Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private drinking booths on
the second floor were usually adjuncts of very profitable places. He
saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts shone with large diamonds,
and whose clothes were properly cut, that the liquor business here,
as elsewhere, yielded the same golden profit. At last he found an
individual who had a resort in Warren Street, which seemed an excellent
venture. It was fairly well-appearing and susceptible of improvement.
The owner claimed the business to be excellent, and it certainly looked
so.

"We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood.
"Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No
bums. We don't allow 'em in the place."

Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the trade for
a while.

"It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked.

"You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor trade," said
the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have. The other is down
in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone. If I had some one who
knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind sharing with him in this
one and letting him manage it."

"I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt a
little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.

"Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor.

He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and good-will,
and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial ability on
the part of the one who should come in. There was no property involved,
because the owner of the saloon merely rented from an estate.

The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood
whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one
hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in
order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It was
not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted, to
hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month now.
By judicious management and improvement, it might be made to pay more.
Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made over his
thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day.

His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie
that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,
introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very
disagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him
surly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in business.
Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like the class of patronage
which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it would take a long time
to make friends. These people hurried in and out without seeking the
pleasures of friendship. It was no gathering or lounging place. Whole
days and weeks passed without one such hearty greeting as he had been
wont to enjoy every day in Chicago.

For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities--those well-dressed,
elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and bring news
from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such in a month.
Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally read in the
evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he knew--whom
he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a bar like
Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House, uptown, but he
knew that he would never see them down here. Again, the business did not
pay as well as he thought. It increased a little, but he found he would
have to watch his household expenses, which was humiliating.

In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night, as
he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner with her
between six and seven, and to remain home until nine o'clock in the
morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time, and he began to
feel the drag of his duties.

The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very natural
way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress.'

"What kind?" said Hurstwood.

"Oh, something for street wear."

"All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it
would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing was said
about it the next day, but the following morning he asked:

"Have you done anything about your dress?"

"Not yet," said Carrie.

He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:

"Would you mind putting it off a few days?"

"No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. She
had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.
"Why?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine is
taking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly, but
just at present I am running close."

"Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me
before?"

"It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood.

For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way Hurstwood
spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal which he was
always about to put through. It was only the thought of a second, but it
was a beginning. It was something new in her thinking of Hurstwood.

Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same
sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full
revelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot long
dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.
The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether
he voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and
contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as nicely
as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada. Carrie
noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was
anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest many
amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his
business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago--not the liberal,
opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious to escape
detection.

In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she
was not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own
counsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.
This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem
reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great
love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is
reached.

As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties
of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous
mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting
where he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state
with his former, hour after hour, and day after day.

Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever
since one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the
city. It was in Broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he
knew. There was no time for simulating non-recognition. The exchange of
glances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent.
So the friend, a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt,
perforce, the necessity of stopping.

"How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of
feeling and a lack of plausible interest.

"Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it with you?"

"All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located here
now?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street."

"Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come down and see
you."

"Do," said Hurstwood.

"So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on.

"He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't think
of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and hoped
sincerely he would meet no one else.

These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope was
that things would change for the better in a money way.

He had Carrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his
position. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have
to do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensions
sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would
be well. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of human
nature--the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With
him and with her varying mental states were common. At any moment the
extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table. This
often happens in the best regulated families. Little things brought out
on such occasions need great love to obliterate them afterward. Where
that is not, both parties count two and two and make a problem after a
while.

The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was paralleled
in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things which fortune provided
with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first expression
of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its clear atmosphere,
more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar indifference struck her
forcibly. She had never seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon
enlisted her affection. The new furniture made an excellent showing,
the sideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. The
furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called parlour,
or front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like
to learn to play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household
tactics and information. For the first time in her life she felt
settled, and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived
of it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while she
concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered
at ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and
indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the whistles of the
hundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of the Sound
steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The mere fact that these
things spoke from the sea made them wonderful. She looked much at what
she could see of the Hudson from her west windows and of the great city
building up rapidly on either hand. It was much to ponder over, and
sufficed to entertain her for more than a year without becoming stale.

For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his difficulties
to her. He carried himself with the same self-important air, took his
new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities
and successes. Each evening he arrived promptly to dinner, and found the
little dining-room a most inviting spectacle. In a way, the smallness
of the room added to its luxury. It looked full and replete. The
white-covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a
four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red shade.
Between Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out all right, and
canned goods did the rest for a while. Carrie studied the art of making
biscuit, and soon reached the stage where she could show a plate of
light, palatable morsels for her labour.

In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter came,
and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the attending of
theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great efforts to meet
all expenditures without a show of feeling one way or the other.
He pretended that he was reinvesting his money in strengthening the
business for greater ends in the future. He contented himself with
a very moderate allowance of personal apparel, and rarely suggested
anything for Carrie. Thus the first winter passed.

In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did increase
somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which he had
anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached certain
conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances.

Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and aggressive
nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed satisfactory
enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre together,
occasionally in season to the beaches and different points about the
city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood naturally abandoned
his show of fine manners with her and modified his attitude to one
of easy familiarity. There were no misunderstandings, no apparent
differences of opinion. In fact, without money or visiting friends,
he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie
rather sympathised with his efforts and thought nothing upon her lack
of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a
corporate entity and her flat temporarily seemed sufficient.

However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began to
pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes.
He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him, but
allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The first time
he did this he sent a message saying that he would be detained. Carrie
ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again. The second time,
also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third time he forgot
entirely and explained afterwards. These events were months apart, each.

"Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.

"Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accounts I
had to straighten."

"I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing to
have such a nice dinner."

The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the feeling
about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the ordinary.

"I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the evening, "I
was so busy."

"Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.

"I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too late
to do any good."

"And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.

Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to
imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He really
thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was finding its
natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the fact that he
had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past year he had
only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him by conditions
which he made, and that she had not gained any friends or associates, he
drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a feeling of satisfaction
in having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction worked
its natural result. That is, since he imagined he saw her satisfied,
he felt called upon to give only that which contributed to such
satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the decorations, the food, and
the necessary clothing. Thoughts of entertaining her, leading her out
into the shine and show of life, grew less and less. He felt attracted
to the outer world, but did not think she would care to go along. Once
he went to the theatre alone. Another time he joined a couple of his
new friends at an evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were
beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however,
in a much less imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He
avoided the gay places where he would be apt to meet those who had known
him. Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving him
greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact, she was
not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when
he should have duly considered it. When he did not come home it did
not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for
having the usual allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop,
friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy
himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her
state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was
that Hurstwood was somewhat different.

Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street
the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved
a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie
afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the
arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by
the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the
like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down,
was used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened
into it from each flat.

If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor
at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the
dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper,
the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age,
was there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and dressing-gown,
with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and
good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The
newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient.
Carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling
stirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.

"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie to
Hurstwood at the breakfast table.

"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.

"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some one
over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."

"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in
this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York
opinion about neighbours.

"Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine other
families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people have been
here over a month and I haven't seen any one before this morning."

"It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you're going to
get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company."

"I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.

The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no more upon
the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she
encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised her and nodded,
for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the probability of
acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint recognition on this
occasion, there would have been no future association.

Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard her
play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the flats,
and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the brilliance
of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself, and such
variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of
great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps
and shadows--indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and
in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was ready for any extension of
the friendship which might follow.

One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the kitchen,
pressed the button which caused the front door of the general entrance
on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie waited at
her own door on the third floor to see who it might be coming up to call
on her, Mrs. Vance appeared.

"I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and forgot
my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."

This was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever
they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for it,
however.

"Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thing
sometimes."

"Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a
moment.

Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was
well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable
companion.

On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both flats were
good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended somewhat more to the
luxurious.

"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said Mrs.
Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meet you. You
play cards, don't you?"

"A little," said Carrie.

"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home bring him
over."

"He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.

"Well, when he does come we'll call him in."

Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an individual
a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his seemingly
comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to his good
looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and laid himself
out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and talking to her
about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano,
and at last Hurstwood came.

"I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated
Carrie. "Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance,
extending his hand upon introduction.

"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said
Hurstwood.

He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw
again what she for some time had subconsciously missed in Hurstwood--the
adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She also saw that she
was not well dressed--not nearly as well dressed--as Mrs. Vance. These
were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was cleared up for her.
She felt that her life was becoming stale, and therein she felt cause
for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy was restored. The desirous
Carrie was whispered to concerning her possibilities.

There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had little
power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable of
getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily borne
along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the marked
contrasts which Carrie had observed.

He did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in her
eyes. Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and
seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly.

"Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had
stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft
pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and
Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.

"All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as
though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "What shall we
see?"

"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think he is
the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play."

"What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.

"Let's go at once and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street,"
said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's at the Madison
Square."

"I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay for
seats?"

"Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.

The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly arrayed
in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match. Carrie had
gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman pained her by
contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little things which Carrie
had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant green leather purse set
with her initials, a fancy handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and
the like. Carrie felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare
with this woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick Mrs.
Vance for her raiment alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust
thought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure, and
had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of
her colour of beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the
two, both of quality and age, but this difference was not especially
noticeable. It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with
her state.

The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable features
of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and afterwards, not only
all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but the men who love to
gaze upon and admire them. It was a very imposing procession of pretty
faces and fine clothes. Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes,
and gloves, and walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or
theatres strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth Streets. Equally
the men paraded with the very latest they could afford. A tailor might
have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and
colours, a hatter on hats. It was literally true that if a lover of
fine clothes secured a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on
Broadway. So true and well understood was this fact, that several years
later a popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the
afternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-halls of
the city.

In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On the
other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only knew of
it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely to see and be
seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any tendency to fall
short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion
of the town.

Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car at
Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely company
which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She noticed suddenly
that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome
men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any
rules of propriety. To stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie
found herself stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats,
and silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into
conscious eyes. Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding
affected smiles and perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling
of goodness and the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered
cheeks and lips, the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous
eye, were common enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was
in fashion's crowd, on parade in a show place--and such a show place!
Jewellers' windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency.
Florist shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in
rapid succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen
in immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of
expensive salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue
jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were
shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,
and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life
of her, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her
beauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be
evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two.
It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here
again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the
delight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!

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

completion: Approximately the first two years in New York is sketched in briefly. Hurstwood purchases a one-third partnership in a downtown establishment, one not nearly so "swell" as Fitzgerald and Moy's. After a few months, business improves and Hurstwood begins to resume his old public self He occasionally gambles and attends the theater with friends but cherishes his home life greatly. He begins to enlarge his wardrobe, but does not encourage Carrie to do so. It seems to him that she is content to be a housewife and so he begins to relax his demeanor before her and treat her with "easy familiarity." For Carrie the routine of running the flat and basking in Hurstwood's affection seem interesting for a time. She attempts to understand that Hurstwood must spend his money frugally and so makes no demands for luxuries or entertainment. Because she is "passive and receptive" and she does not love Hurstwood, she is not jealous of his public life. Gradually, however, she becomes aware of the changes in Hurstwood and begins to resent being neglected. In the second year, Carrie meets a new neighbor, Mrs. Vance, whose elegant clothing and fashionable behavior begin to awaken her old desires. One day she attends a matinee with Mrs. Vance, and she becomes fascinated with the "showy parade" of "pretty faces and fine clothes" on Broadway. "With a start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's crowd, on parade in a show place -- and such a show place!" Carrie is "cut to the quick" by her own lack of quality and stylish apparel and she resolves never to walk upon Broadway again until she looks better. She feels her old desire to enter into the world of fashion as an equal; "then she would be happy!"


prompt:
Chapter: Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an
exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the play.
The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his popularity by
presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which sufficient sorrow was
introduced to lend contrast and relief to humour. For Carrie, as we well
know, the stage had a great attraction. She had never forgotten her one
histrionic achievement in Chicago. It dwelt in her mind and occupied her
consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-chair
and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her state. Never
could she witness a play without having her own ability vividly brought
to consciousness. Some scenes made her long to be a part of them--to
give expression to the feelings which she, in the place of the character
represented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid
imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She
lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her
daily life.

It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's core
by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing in her
heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen. Oh, these
women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong, who were
they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the astonishingly coloured
buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold? Where were these lovely
creatures housed? Amid what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated
walls, elaborate tapestries did they move? Where were their rich
apartments, loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables
champed these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages?
Where lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights,
the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled
with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures
could not be. Some hothouses held them. It ached her to know that she
was not one of them--that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not
come true. She wondered at her own solitude these two years past--her
indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had
expected.

The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which charmingly
overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love and jealousy
amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing to those who
have all their days longed for such material surroundings and have never
had them gratified. They have the charm of showing suffering under ideal
conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not
suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried
servants? Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing.
Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever
they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate them
under such charming conditions upon the stage. So affected was her
mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an extraordinarily
beautiful thing. She was soon lost in the world it represented, and
wished that she might never return. Between the acts she studied the
galaxy of matinee attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a
new idea of the possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen
it all--that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight.

Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The scene she
had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its height. Such
a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It clinched her
convictions concerning her state. She had not lived, could not lay claim
to having lived, until something of this had come into her own life.
Women were spending money like water; she could see that in every
elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal
things in which the elegant dames were interested. And she--she had
scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times
a month.

That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was not
what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant working at
dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running scenes of the
play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress--the sweetheart
who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had won Carrie's
heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest, her sufferings
had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel.
It was done as she was sure she could do it. There were places in which
she could even do better. Hence she repeated the lines to herself. Oh,
if she could only have such a part, how broad would be her life! She,
too, could act appealingly.

When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking and
thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations broken in
upon; so she said little or nothing.

"What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing her
quiet, almost moody state.

"Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well tonight."

"Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.

"Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good."

"That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a show
to-night."

"I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions should
have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I've been to the
matinee this afternoon."

"Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?"

"A Gold Mine."

"How was it?"

"Pretty good," said Carrie.

"And you don't want to go again to night?"

"I don't think I do," she said.

Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the dinner
table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach does wonders.
She went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered her equanimity.
The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered. As often as she
might recover from these discontented thoughts now, they would occur
again. Time and repetition--ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and
the solid stone--how utterly it yields at last!

Not long after this matinee experience--perhaps a month--Mrs. Vance
invited Carrie to an evening at the theatre with them. She heard Carrie
say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.

"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're going
down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come along with
us."

"I think I will," answered Carrie.

She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past
five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for
position in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of
her association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had her
attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which pertains
to a woman's apparel.

"Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen the new
gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out of a
large selection.

"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance, "get
button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the rage
this fall."

"I will," said Carrie.

"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They have
some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would look
stunning on you. I said so when I saw it."

Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they
were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common between
pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature so well that
she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the latest things.

"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're
selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circular
style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would
look so nice on you."

Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up between her
and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one thing and another,
which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of opinion. He noticed
the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs.
Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence the change came. He was
not inclined to offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that
Carrie's wants were expanding. This did not appeal to him exactly, but
he cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. Still, there
was something in the details of the transactions which caused Carrie
to feel that her requests were not a delight to him. He did not enthuse
over the purchases. This led her to believe that neglect was creeping
in, and so another small wedge was entered.

Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the
fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own
satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the thought
that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat and fitting. She
looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs. Vance praised her,
which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness
into her large eyes. It was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance, at his
wife's request, had called a coach. "Your husband isn't coming?"
suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie in his little parlour.

"No; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."

"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He might
turn up."

"I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.

"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows, though I
guess."

Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,
gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat.

"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said Mrs.
Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"

"I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie.

The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart figure.
She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking, and young, but
nothing more.

"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance, "and
we're trying to show him around a little."

"Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer.

"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said young
Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while Mrs. Vance
completed the last touches of her toilet.

"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.

"It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames, pleasantly.

He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free of
affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming the last
traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at conversation,
but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly courageous. Carrie
felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk to him.

"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside."

"Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob, you'll have
to look after Mrs. Wheeler."

"I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "You won't
need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of ingratiating
and help-me-out kind of way.

"Not very, I hope," said Carrie.

They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and climbed
into the open coach.

"All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance
rolled away.

"What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.

"Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"

"Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man."

"I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.

"I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very much."

Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it his
bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to find her so
young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a respectful interest.
There was nothing of the dashing lady's man about him. He had respect
for the married state, and thought only of some pretty marriageable
girls in Indianapolis.

"Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.

"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."

"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."

"I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange to me as
when I first came here."

"You're not from the West, are you?"

"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.

"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here so
very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are here."

"What is your line?" asked Carrie.

"I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.

Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and
partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached.

Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking in the
streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous, pedestrians
many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were crowded. At
Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from several new
hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion of sumptuous
hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was noticeably
crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress. At Sherry's an
imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped them out. Young Ames
held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. They entered
the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting
themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room.

In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In the
whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had
not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost
indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that this
was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of expense
limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class. Carrie
had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World." She had seen
notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's. The Misses
So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's. Young Mr.
So-and-So would entertain a party of friends at a private luncheon on
the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of conventional, perfunctory
notices of the doings of society, which she could scarcely refrain from
scanning each day, had given her a distinct idea of the gorgeousness
and luxury of this wonderful temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was
really in it. She had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large
and portly doorman. She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and
portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care
of canes, overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber,
all decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was
Mrs. Vance; young, beautiful, and well off--at least, sufficiently so to
come here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.

Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were seated
parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance and
dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate.
Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in polished glasses,
and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined into one tone of light
which it requires minutes of complacent observation to separate and take
particular note of. The white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright
costumes of the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were
exceedingly noticeable.

Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and accepted the
seat which the head waiter provided for her. She was keenly aware of
all the little things that were done--the little genuflections and
attentions of the waiters and head waiter which Americans pay for. The
air with which the latter pulled out each chair, and the wave of the
hand with which he motioned them to be seated, were worth several
dollars in themselves.

Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. The
large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army,
sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous
impossibility--an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen
kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the
half-dozen; entrees, fish, and meats at prices which would house one
over night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty and two dollars seemed
to be the most common figures upon this most tastefully printed bill of
fare.

Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken
carried her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion
when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet in a good restaurant in
Chicago. It was only momentary--a sad note as out of an old song--and
then it was gone. But in that flash was seen the other Carrie--poor,
hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed
world, from which she only wandered because she could not find work.

On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue,
set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of
fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. On the
ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre
where spread a cluster of lights--incandescent globes mingled with
glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. The floor was of
a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction were
mirrors--tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and
re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times.

The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint
of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware, the
name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small,
red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments
and faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an air of
exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped,
touched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personal attention
which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one side,
elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup--green turtle, yes. One portion, yes.
Oysters--certainly--half-dozen--yes. Asparagus. Olives--yes."

It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order for all,
inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the company with open
eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so that the rich spent
their days and evenings. Her poor little mind could not rise above
applying each scene to all society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd
on Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre at the matinee, in the
coaches and dining-halls at night. It must be glow and shine everywhere,
with coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of it all.
In two long years she had never even been in such a place as this.

Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in former
days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes,
and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the
table in a wicker basket.

Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose rather
large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a good, wide,
well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one
side. He seemed to have the least touch of boyishness to Carrie, and yet
he was a man full grown.

"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his reflection,
"I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this
way."

Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his
seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which she had
never pondered.

"Do you?" she answered, interestedly.

"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are worth. They
put on so much show."

"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said Mrs.
Vance.

"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the bill of
fare, though he had ordered.

Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
forehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As he
studied the crowd his eye was mild.

"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to
Carrie, and nodding in a direction.

"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.

"Over there in the corner--way over. Do you see that brooch?"

"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.

"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.

"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be
agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps
preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better
educated than she was--that his mind was better. He seemed to look it,
and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could understand that people
could be wiser. She had seen a number of people in her life who reminded
her of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars. This strong
young man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold
of things which she did not quite understand, but approved of. It was
fine to be so, as a man, she thought.

The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the
time--"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it. Vance
had seen it discussed in some of the papers.

"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I notice
this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking at Carrie as
he spoke.

"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.

"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This last
story is pretty good."

"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.

Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.

"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.

Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or had
a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed
that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed
youth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it. It
was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and for the first
time felt the pain of not understanding.

Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke.
He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly
thought of a high order--the right thing to think, and wondered what
else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she listened
and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to
her.

As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they
were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little
attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation
upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of
Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind,
which was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge. His
sympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of
people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head gave it a sandy
tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie noticed all these things
as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. This man was far
ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter than
Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that he was
exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his interest in her was a
far-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the things that touched
his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they appealed to
her.

"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and
the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend
my money this way."

"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing
itself distinctly upon her for the first time.

"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of
thing to be happy."

Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight
with her.

"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. He's
so strong."

Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these
impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient,
however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself
upon Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he
moved in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had seen
on the stage--the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she
knew not what. He had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast
between this life and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference
which concerned only him.

As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and
then they were off again, and so to the show.

During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively.
He mentioned things in the play which she most approved of--things which
swayed her deeply.

"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.

"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great
thing."

Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she could
only be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he knew--and he
approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would approve
of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had, although it did
not concern her at all. She did not know why she felt this way.

At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going
back with them.

"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.

"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third
Street."

Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked
her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had
thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours, the minutes of
the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them!

She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it make?
Still, the coach seemed lorn.

When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did not
know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference could
it make--what difference could it make?

Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were
scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then
retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.
It was disagreeable to her.

Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little
hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and
conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope and
pity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.

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

completion: After the matinee Carrie returns home to dwell upon what seems to her the extraordinarily beautiful world of the theater and regrets in her heart that she cannot be part of it. Nevertheless, New York seems to be a place filled with even more wonder and fantasy than Chicago itself. She believes that she can "never live" until she becomes a part of New York society. When Hurstwood enters, Carrie is in her rocking chair, moody, testy, and resentful of having her reveries broken in upon. He invites her to the theater with him that same evening and she accepts. About a month later, Carrie goes out for dinner and theater as the guest of the Vance's and Mrs. Vance's cousin, Bob Ames. As they dine at Sherry's, a very exclusive restaurant of the period, Ames, a "clear-eyed, fine-headed youth," suggests to Carrie that wealth and fashionable attire are only unnecessary luxuries. Ames seems "wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter than Drouet." His sincere rejection of excessive wealth removes some of the bitterness of the contrast between the society life and Carrie's life. Yet Carrie is attracted by his intelligence, and sees that his "calm indifference" is not the response of a bitter loser. When the evening is over Carrie retires to her rocking chair to think over the events of the day. "Through a fog of longing and conflicting desires . . . she was beginning to see."