prompt:
Chapter: 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."

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

completion: We learn that Hurstwood's been so wrapped up in his affair with Carrie that he's pretty much been ignoring everything going on at home. Every morning he goes through the motions of having breakfast with Mrs. Hurstwood and the kids, but mostly buries his nose in the newspaper so he doesn't have to actually talk to any of them. We jump back to a scene in the Hurstwood home that took place on the night of Hurstwood's latest theater outing with Drouet and Carrie . Right before he leaves for the play, Mrs. Hurstwood tells him that she wants him to get them all season tickets to the horse races. She's never asked for season tickets before, but her rich friends are getting them and she wants to "exhibit" Jessica in the hopes of attracting a rich husband for her. Hurstwood tells her they're not easy to get and they're insanely expensive, but she throws a tantrum and he gives in. He doesn't stick around for supper. We return to the present as Hurstwood eats breakfast with his family. He's irritated because Jessica keeps dropping hints that she wants to go to Europe for the summer like her rich friends. He's further ticked that George Jr. went off to another town for a tennis match and didn't tell him. He feels out of the loop with his kids. Hurstwood cheers himself up by thinking of Carrie. He contemplates the fact that Carrie has no clue that he's married and he's hopeful that she won't find out. They've become serious pen pals, writing to each other ever since the theater night. Hurstwood writes her a letter asking her to meet him in the park. They meet up, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, Hurstwood cuts to the chase: he wants her to leave Drouet and come away with him. She asks him where they'd go, and he asks her where she wants to go. She doesn't want to stay in Chicago because Drouet's there, but Hurstwood would have to give up his job if they left, so he tries to convince her Chicago is big enough for all of them. And then she drops a bomb: "I shouldn't want to get married as long as 's here" , she tells him. Hurstwood panics at first, as the word bigamy flashes in his mind like a neon sign, but he can't help feeling happy that she feels so strongly about him. Hurstwood gets a brilliant idea: he'll give Carrie a little test. He asks her what she would do if he came to her and told her that he had to go away and wasn't coming back. Would she go with him? Duh--the answer is yes. He presses, asking if she would still go if they couldn't get married right away. She says that would be okay as long as they got married "as soon as we got to the other end of the journey." He plays it off like he's joking, telling her he'll come get her some evening, and she reinforces her sentiment that she will only stay with him if he marries her. They happily stroll through the park together.


prompt:
Chapter: 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: Drouet is a member of the Freemasons, which is an actual secret society. We could've picked up on this way back in Chapter One by the narrator's description of his ring, but now it's made explicitly clear. Drouet goes to a meeting at the lodge and one of his fellow masons , Mr. Quincel, tells him that the organization wants to raise money to buy new furniture for the lodge, so they're going to put on a play. Quincel wants Drouet's help in finding an actress who could take one of the parts. Drouet agrees to help though he doesn't actually know anyone who could do it. The whole thing isn't high on Drouet's list of priorities, and a few days later he finds himself in a bind when he receives a letter informing him that the first play rehearsal is Friday night. They need the name and address of that actress he promised them pronto... oops. Desperate to find someone, Drouet asks Carrie if she'll take the role. She's flattered to death, but not sure--she has no acting experience. But Carrie has secretly wanted to be an actress after having gone to the theater, so it doesn't take much arm-twisting for Drouet to convince her to take the part. Drouet leaves and Carrie sits in the rocking chair and fantasizes about being on stage. Drouet drops into the lodge to let Quincel know that Carrie will be taking the part . He also decides that Carrie needs a jazzier stage name, so he christens her Carrie Madenda. Quincel gives him the script and he takes it home to Carrie. She reads through it and finds out that the part is pretty small and requires "suffering and tears." She spends the next day memorizing her lines. When she performs a scene for Drouet, he's super impressed.


prompt:
Chapter: The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take place
at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy than
was at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written to
Hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was going
to take part in a play.

"I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest; "I
have my part now, honest, truly."

Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.

"I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that."

He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability. "I
haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must come to
the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it."

Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertaking
as she understood it.

"Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you will
do well, you're so clever."

He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her tendency
to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared. As she
spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much of the
pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her misgivings--and
they were as plentiful as the moments of the day--she was still happy.
She could not repress her delight in doing this little thing which, to
an ordinary observer, had no importance at all.

Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl had
capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of a
legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour, force,
and beauty to the possessor.

Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She drew
to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned.
Their affection for her naturally heightened their perception of
what she was trying to do and their approval of what she did. Her
inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot with
every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod whereby
the treasure of life was to be discovered.

"Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in the
lodge. I'm an Elk myself."

"Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you."

"That's so," said the manager.

"I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't see how
you can unless he asks you."

"I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it so he
won't know you told me. You leave it to me."

This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the
performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth talking
about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and flowers
for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give the little
girl a chance.

Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort, and he
was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon and
the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, a
goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed,
beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John L. Sullivan, the
pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company
of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation.
Drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan
shoes squeaking audibly at his progress.

"Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of you. I
thought you had gone out of town again."

Drouet laughed.

"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the list."

"Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."

They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company of
notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in as
many minutes.

"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed Hurstwood,
in the most offhand manner.

"Yes, who told you?"

"No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets, which
I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?"

"I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get me to
get some woman to take a part."

"I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'll subscribe, of
course. How are things over there?"

"All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds."

"Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Have
another?"

He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the scene
with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along.
Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion.

"I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said abruptly,
after thinking it over.

"You don't say so! How did that happen?"

"Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told
Carrie, and she seems to want to try."

"Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Do her
good, too. Has she ever had any experience?"

"Not a bit."

"Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious."

"She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation against
Carrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough."

"You don't say so!" said the manager.

"Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she didn't."

"We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'll look
after the flowers."

Drouet smiled at his good-nature.

"After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper."

"I think she'll do all right," said Drouet.

"I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her," and the
manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compound
of good-nature and shrewdness.

Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance
Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some
qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by
any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he
came very near being rude--failing to remember, as he did, that the
individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not
salaried underlings.

"Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one part
uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand like
that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over the
intrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out across the Avery
stage in almost drooping manner.

Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the
situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the
desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. She
walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that
there was something strangely lacking.

"Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman who was
to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you stand
here, so. Now, what is it you say?"

"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura's
lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of
marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth.

"How is that--what does your text say?"

"Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.

"Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to look
shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked."

"Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.

"No, no, that won't do! Say it this way--EXPLAIN."

"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.

"That's better. Now go on."

"One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father and
mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the
usual crowd of children accosted them for alms--"

"Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. "Put
more feeling into what you are saying."

Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eye
lightened with resentment.

"Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying his
manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now supposed
to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires feeling,
repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted them for alms.'"

"All right," said Mrs. Morgan.

"Now, go on."

"As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a
cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse."

"Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly.

"A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines that
here fell to him.

"No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that way.
'A pickpocket--well?' so. That's the idea."

"Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been
proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let
alone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we just
went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up
some points."

"A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the side
of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the
director did not heed.

"All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to do
it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we run right
through, putting in as much expression as we can."

"Good," said Mr. Quincel.

"This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down
at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her own,
and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain.
Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl."

"Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle.

"The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.

"Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep his
hands off.

"The thief!" roared poor Bamberger.

"Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.
'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?'

"'Trying to steal,' said the child.

"'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.

"'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'

"'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.

"'She--there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway
opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old Judas,' said
the girl."

Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. He
fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.

"What do you think of them?" he asked.

"Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the latter,
with an air of strength under difficulties.

"I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes me as
being a pretty poor shift for a lover."

"He's all we've got," said Quincel, rolling up his eyes. "Harrison went
back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?"

"I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up."

At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking with
me." "Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand.
"My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like
that?"

"Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly.

The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie, as
Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing Pearl's
statement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her,
which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding the
words of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late," and
was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with:

"Ray!"

"Miss--Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly.

Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present.
She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to her
lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he were
not present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon.

"Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her little
scene with Bamberger.

"Miss Madenda," said Quincel.

"I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?"

"I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of our members."

"Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far--seems
to take an interest in what she's doing."

"Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel.

The director strolled away without answering.

In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in the
ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, who
volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speak
with her.

"Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly.

"No," said Carrie.

"You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience."

Carrie only smiled consciously.

He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting some
ardent line.

Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with envious
and snapping black eyes.

"She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction of
thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.

The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that she
had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director
were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell
Hurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet,
too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until he
should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up. The
drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her little
experience did not appeal to him as important. He let the conversation
drop, save for what she chose to recite without solicitation, and Carrie
was not good at that. He took it for granted that she was doing very
well and he was relieved of further worry. Consequently he threw Carrie
into repression, which was irritating. She felt his indifference keenly
and longed to see Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend
she had on earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the
damage had been done.

She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time she
got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came, he shone
upon her as the morning sun.

"Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"

"Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.

"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?"

Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she
proceeded.

"Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must get over
there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?"

"Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."

"I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.

She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but she
made him promise not to come around.

"Now, you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly. "Just
remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the performance worth
while. You do that now."

"I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.

"That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shaking an
affectionate finger at her, "your best."

"I will," she answered, looking back.

The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped along,
the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed are the
children of endeavour in this, that they try and are hopeful. And
blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.

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

completion: Carrie writes to Hurstwood telling him about getting the part in the play. He writes back telling her to meet him in the park the next day so he can hear more about it. When they meet up, he insists on coming to see her debut. She's hesitant, but Hurstwood tells her not to worry and that he'll arrange it so that Drouet doesn't know it was Carrie who told him about it. Hurstwood can see that Carrie is super psyched about the play. A few days later, Drouet and Hurstwood run into each other at a bar and Hurstwood tells him that he's heard about the play. Drouet asks how he heard and Hurstwood tells him the lodge sent him some tickets . Drouet tells him Carrie's going to be in it and Hustwood plays dumb and acts surprised. They agree that she'll do a good job and Hurstwood promises to take them out to dinner after the show. Carrie attends her first play rehearsal run by Mr. Quincel, who is assisted by Mr. Millice. Millice thinks he's a big shot because he's had a little acting experience. You fancy, huh? Mr. Millice is none too pleased with most of these amateur actors' performances, but he's very impressed with Carrie. The director asks Carrie if she's had experience acting before--she's so good--which makes another actress, Mrs. Morgan, super jealous. Carrie goes home, excited to tell Drouet about the successful rehearsal, but Drouet really doesn't seem to care too much. This just makes her even more eager to sneak off to see Hurstwood. She meets up with Hurstwood, who is excited for her and says he plans to sneak into a rehearsal to see her; she begs him not to. They part ways and Carrie is all smiles.


prompt:
Chapter: By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made itself
apparent. He had given the word among his friends--and they were many
and influential--that here was something which they ought to attend,
and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel, acting for
the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had appeared in all of
the daily newspapers. These he had arranged for by the aid of one of
his newspaper friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry McGarren, the managing
editor.

"Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood at
the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "you can help
the boys out, I guess."

"What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the opulent
manager.

"The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own
good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean--a
squib or two saying that it's going to take place."

"Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George."

At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background. The
members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little
affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as quite a
star for this sort of work.

By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied
like Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured,
flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he thought of
assisting Carrie.

That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction, much
as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the gathered
throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to console herself
with the thought that a score of other persons, men and women, were
equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could
not disassociate the general danger from her own individual liability.
She feared that she would forget her lines, that she might be unable to
master the feeling which she now felt concerning her own movements in
the play. At times she wished that she had never gone into the affair;
at others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with fear and
stand white and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire
performance.

In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That
hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's criticism.
Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and determined, if for
nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at least. A loafing
professional had been called in to assume the role of Ray, and, while he
was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms
which attack the spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He
swashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning
his past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner that
he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere matter of
circumstantial evidence.

"It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage
voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the
spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."

Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to
swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer his
fictitious love for the evening.

At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been provided
over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the morning,
had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o'clock,
and had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the
evening to come.

On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her as far
as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking
for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously into her
dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up
which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of
Society.

The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and
display, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge, pearl
powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eye-lids,
wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery--in short, all the nameless
paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own.
Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but always
in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly. It was
wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away,
permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took her by the hand
kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for her as if
for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the names upon the
bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the papers, the beauty
of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of carriages, flowers,
refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an open door to see all of
that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon a secret passage
and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds and delight!

As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the
voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting Mrs.
Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing
all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what
the result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this
would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do
well now, and then some time get a place as a real actress. The thought
had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in her ears as the melody of
an old song.

Outside in the little lobby another scene was begin enacted. Without
the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been
comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately
interested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone the
rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been taken.
Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This was quite
a card. C. R. Walker, dry-goods merchant and possessor of at least two
hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known coal merchant
had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the
fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who were now pouring
here were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general
sense. They were the lights of a certain circle--the circle of small
fortunes and secret order distinctions. These gentlemen Elks knew the
standing of one another. They had regard for the ability which could
amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep a barouche or carriage,
perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain a good mercantile position.
Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a little above the order of mind
which accepted this standard as perfect, who had shrewdness and much
assumption of dignity, who held an imposing and authoritative position,
and commanded friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was
quite a figure. He was more generally known than most others in the same
circle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of
influence and solid financial prosperity.

To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends directly
from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet, who was
just returning from a trip for more cigars. All five now joined in an
animated conversation concerning the company present and the general
drift of lodge affairs.

"Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where
the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and
talking in the open space back of the seats.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the first individual
recognised.

"Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.

"Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?"

"Yes, indeed," said the manager.

"Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the friend.

"So it should," said the knowing manager. "I'm glad to see it."

"Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois made
necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom, "how goes
it with you?"

"Excellent," said the manager.

"What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer."

"Good-nature," returned the manager. "Like to see the boys, you know."

"Wife here?"

"She couldn't come to-night. She's not well."

"Sorry to hear it--nothing serious, I hope."

"No, just feeling a little ill."

"I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you over to
St. Joe--" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial recollection,
which was terminated by the arrival of more friends.

"Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side politician
and lodge member. "My, but I'm glad to see you again; how are things,
anyhow?"

"Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman."

"Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble."

"What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?"

"Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you
know."

"I didn't know that," said the manager. "Felt pretty sore, I suppose,
over his defeat." "Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly.

Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began to
roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great show of
finery and much evident feeling of content and importance.

"Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he
was talking.

"That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five.

"And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the
shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a good
show, I'll punch your head."

"You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!"

To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" the manager
replied:

"I don't know. I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his hand graciously,
"For the lodge."

"Lots of boys out, eh?"

"Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago."

It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful
voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and
all largely because of this man's bidding. Look at him any time within
the half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent
group--a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large
white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success.
The gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands.
Seats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was evidently
a light among them, reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those
who greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised.
Through it all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness
in a way, small as it was.

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

completion: Hurstwood has been talking up the play to a bunch of his businessmen buds, convincing them to get tickets--he's even taken out an ad in the newspaper. This thing is going to be more packed than a Madonna concert. Carrie is jittery as the big night approaches, even though she has prepared thoroughly. A member of the cast has been axed for his lackluster performance and replaced by "a loafing professional," and Mrs. Morgan is still green with envy over Carrie's favored status. The lodge sends a carriage to pick up Carrie and Drouet and bring them to the theater. Carrie gets her makeup done and is soon transformed into "The Belle of Society." She adores the whole process and atmosphere. The theater lobby is jammed with well-dressed, well-to-do businessmen and their families. Hurstwood and Drouet run into each other in the lobby and greet one another. Hurstwood chats with his pals, and when one asks where his wife is, Hurstwood says she's sick.


prompt:
Chapter: At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the make-up
had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the
small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with
his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood ceased
talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison around to
the box.

"Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in a tone
which no one else could hear.

On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening
parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was
not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs.
Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part were representing
the principal roles in this scene. The professional, whose name was
Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this
at the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl,
was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole
company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing
more. It took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to
keep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure.

Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it
would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable enough to
allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.

After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the
danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the
expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme,
when Carrie came in.

One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that she
also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying:

"And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock," but
with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively
painful.

"She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.

The manager made no answer.

She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.

"Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill."

It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet
fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.

There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of
impending disaster, say, sadly:

"I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call a
maid by a married name.'"

The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it
at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she
were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs.
Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly
at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter
held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood
fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He
was pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for
her.

In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by
the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a
conversation between the professional actor and a character called
Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really developed
some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for
a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they
really did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. Now he
was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief
figure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene
between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the
audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.

"She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark
that he was lying for once.

"Better go back and say a word to her."

Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to
the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-keeper. Carrie
was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and
nerve gone out of her.

"Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous. Wake up.
Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know," said Carrie. "I just don't seem to be able to do it."

She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found the
company so nervous that her own strength had gone.

"Come on," said Drouet. "Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out
there now, and do the trick. What do you care?"

Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous
condition.

"Did I do so very bad?"

"Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed
me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night."

Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could
to it.

"What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been
studying.

"Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him."

"Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "Put in snap, that's
the thing. Act as if you didn't care."

"Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter.

"Oh, dear," said Carrie.

"Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet. "Come on now,
brace up. I'll watch you from right here."

"Will you?" said Carrie.

"Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid."

The prompter signalled her.

She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially
returned. She thought of Drouet looking.

"Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when
she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director
at the rehearsal.

"She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself.

She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The
audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the
entire company took away direct observation from her. They were making
very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable,
in the less trying parts at least.

Carrie came off warm and nervous.

"Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?"

"Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You did that
about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene. Now go
on and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em."

"Was it really better?"

"Better, I should say so. What comes next?"

"That ballroom scene."

"Well, you can do that all right," he said.

"I don't know," answered Carrie.

"Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out there and
do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. If you'll
reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a hit. Now, what'll you bet? You
do it."

The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better of
his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this particular
scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in public. His
enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion.

When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began to
make her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy of desire
began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the situation
rolled around she was running high in feeling.

"I think I can do this."

"Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see."

On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation against
Laura.

Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something--she did not know
what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly.

"It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "that society
is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the Siberian
wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, the others devour
him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in
society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and society, which is made
up of pretence, will bitterly resent the mockery."

At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel the
bitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descended upon
her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mounting thoughts.
She hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood.

"Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after our
things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief enters."

"Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear.
Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of inspiration.
She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud, shifting, with the
necessity of the situation, to a cold, white, helpless object, as the
social pack moved away from her scornfully.

Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating waves
of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the farthest
walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet dissolve the
world, was here at work.

There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,
heretofore wandering.

"Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of Pearl.

Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They moved as
she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes.

Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.

"Let us go home," she said.

"No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a
penetrating quality which it had never known. "Stay with him!"

She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a
pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He shall not
suffer long."

Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily good.
It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the curtain
descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that she was
beautiful. She had done something which was above his sphere. He felt a
keen delight in realising that she was his.

"Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and went
about to the stage door.

When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His feelings for
her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by the strength and
feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth his praise with the
unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was Drouet, whose affection was
also rapidly reviving. The latter was more fascinated, if anything, than
Hurstwood. At least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form.

"Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight. That was simply great.
I knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little daisy!"

Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement.

"Did I do all right?"

"Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?"

There was some faint sound of clapping yet.

"I thought I got it something like--I felt it."

Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in Drouet.
He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy leaped alight
in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached himself for having
sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder. He could scarcely pull
himself down to the level where he would have to congratulate Carrie as
a friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph.
He almost jerked the old subtle light to his eyes.

"I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around and tell
you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful."

Carrie took the cue, and replied:

"Oh, thank you."

"I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with his
possession, "that I thought she did fine."

"Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in which she
read more than the words.

Carrie laughed luxuriantly.

"If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all think
you are a born actress."

Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's position,
and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not
understand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could not talk,
repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of his presence,
he bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outside he set his
teeth with envy.

"Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He was moody
when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking of his
wretched situation.

As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was
very much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwood
pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie was
not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her entrance.
He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinking his own
thoughts, and they were wretched.

The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie, from
now on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, which had
been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first gloomy
impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where it was
not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her part with
some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the
feeling at the end of the long first act.

Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising feelings.
The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that they should
see it set forth under such effective circumstances, framed almost in
massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights of sentiment and
personality, heightened her charm for them. She was more than the old
Carrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with her until he could tell
her. He awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone.

Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new
attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the
man beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he
would. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth.

It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers assumed
its most effective character.

Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come on.
He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of sending all
the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in alone. It was
the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see her facing the
audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been without a foil of
some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the
power that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back.
She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing to a
close and the opportunity for great action was passing.

"Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a sad thing
to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another groping
about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp."

She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting
listlessly upon the polished door-post.

Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. He
could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a combination
of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that quality of voice
and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a
personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality, that it seems ever
addressed to one alone.

"And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little actress.
"Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home."

She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so much
simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then she found
a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a thought to
them.

"With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in
conclusion--and it was almost a sigh--"my existence hidden from all save
two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent
girl who will soon be his wife."

Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,
interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He
was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey,
with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air of
one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating
make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in
spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own
delight.

In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation:

"I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. I must
go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must."

There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice saying:
"No, I shall not ride again. Put him up."

He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the
creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his
peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something
of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a
feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising
sentiment as she proceeded.

"I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover.

"I did go part of the way, but I left the Party a mile down the road."

"You and Pearl had no disagreement?"

"No--yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at
'cloudy' and 'overcast.'"

"And whose fault is that?" she said, easily.

"Not mine," he answered, pettishly. "I know I do all I can--I say all I
can--but she----"

This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with a
grace which was inspiring.

"But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon the
stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was again
low and musical. "Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which
the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be
discontented and unhappy."

She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly.

Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with
satisfaction.

"To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was weak by
comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which
Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that he was
wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. The
accessories she needed were within her own imagination. The acting of
others could not affect them.

"And you repent already?" she said, slowly.

"I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at the
mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was your
fault--you know it was--why did you leave me?"

Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse in
silence. Then she turned back.

"Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been the
thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous
woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. What a
revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you continually war
with your happiness?"

The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience and
the lover as a personal thing.

At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to me as you
used to be."

Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to you, but
I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you forever."

"Be it as you will," said Patton.

Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent.

"Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her eyes
bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, "beautiful or
homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or
refuse--her heart."

Drouet felt a scratch in his throat.

"Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you; but her
love is the treasure without money and without price."

The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if
they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow
over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom he
loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that he would be
to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry her, by George!
She was worth it.

"She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing the small,
scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more in harmony
with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra, "that when you
look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when you address her
your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you shall not despise
her because she cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts
and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated your
greatest purposes, her love remains to console you. You look to the
trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrained his feelings only by
the grimmest repression, "for strength and grandeur; do not despise the
flowers because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember," she
concluded, tenderly, "love is all a woman has to give," and she laid a
strange, sweet accent on the all, "but it is the only thing which God
permits us to carry beyond the grave."

The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They scarcely
heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded. They only
saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace, continuing a power
which to them was a revelation.

Hurstwood resolved a thousands things, Drouet as well. They joined
equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouet pounded
his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and started out. As
he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immense basket of flowers being
hurried down the aisle toward her she waited. They were Hurstwood's.
She looked toward the manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and
smiled. He could have leaped out of the box to enfold her. He forgot
the need of circumspectness which his married state enforced. He almost
forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. By the Lord,
he would have that lovely girl if it took his all. He would act at once.
This should be the end of Drouet, and don't you forget it. He would not
wait another day. The drummer should not have her.

He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into the
lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did not return. In
a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to have Carrie
alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling, bowing, shamming,
when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when he wanted to whisper
to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes were futile. He must
even take her to supper, shamming. He finally went about and asked how
she was getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying
about. Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of excitement
and passion. The manager mastered himself only by a great effort.

"We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that was a
mockery of his heart.

"Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling.

The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what it
was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The
independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the
tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover.
She did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in
condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was
ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once,
only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was
when the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her. Before
Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a gentle,
impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with affection. He
could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "Ah," he thought, "the
agony of it."

Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled by
his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he
did not find affectionate relief. He whispered "to-morrow" passionately
to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the drummer and his
prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie
also felt the misery of it.

"Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness.

"Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly.

"The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him yet, and
that quick! We'll see to-morrow."

"Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,
squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on earth."

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

completion: It's show time. Drouet and Hurstwood sit together in the audience. The curtain rises, but Carrie isn't in the opening scene, so Drouet and Hurstwood whisper . It becomes clear pretty quickly that this isn't exactly Broadway--the players manage to remember their lines, but that's about it. And then Carrie enters... and she totally bombs. It's painful--no, make that excruciating--to watch. It's so bad, in fact, that Drouet dashes backstage to catch her between scenes and give her a little pep talk. The pep talk helps. Carrie gets better . Drouet remains backstage and continues to coach her in between scenes. And as the play goes on, Carrie gets really good. Like, Oscar-worthy good. Hurstwood and Drouet are both amazed by her sudden star power. Hurstwood comes backstage at intermission to congratulate Carrie, and when he sees Drouet and Carrie together, he becomes crazy jealous. Carrie and Hurstwood suppress their burning desire for one another and pretend to just be pals. A bitter Hurstwood returns to his seat. The play resumes and Carrie continues to deliver an awesome performance. Hurstwood and Drouet are both falling in love with her all over again, and Drouet even resolves to marry her now. Uh-oh... Here's the gist of the play: Laura left the man she loved because she thought he deserved a woman of his high social standing. He marries the rich woman, even though he's still in love with Laura. Sounds kind of familiar, right? Hurstwood certainly thinks so, and is even more deeply moved by Carrie's performance given how the play's situation resonates with his own. The play ends and the audience applauds wildly. Someone brings flowers to Carrie--they're from Hurstwood, who thinks that he has to get Carrie away from Drouet. Backstage, Carrie basks in the glory of her success. Hurstwood, Carrie and Drouet climb into a carriage and head to dinner. Afterward, as Drouet and Carrie say their goodnights to Hurstwood, Hurstwood whispers to Carrie to meet him the following day. Hurstwood, who is now filled with "hate" for Drouet, is determined to do something. Pronto.