prompt:
Chapter: The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that
jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs.
Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could
transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense,
of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a social
sense he fell short. With his regard died his power to be attentive to
her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward
another. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in
another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her husband's
indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung
only from a faded appreciation of her presence.

As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that
prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of
the married relation on his part served to give her notice of the
airy grace with which he still took the world. She could see from
the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal
appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every motion,
every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of
the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hurstwood
felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.

This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent
nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation he
shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement of
satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently,
he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were really
precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That
it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds, would
scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the breakfast
table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of
indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood encountered Jessica in her
dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already
left the house.

"I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said,
addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "Now here the
things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten."

Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to feel
the fag end of the storm.

"I'm not hungry," she answered.

"Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,
instead of keeping her waiting all morning?"

"She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly.

"Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, I don't
like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such an air
with your mother."

"Oh, mamma, don't row,"; answered Jessica. "What's the matter this
morning, anyway?"

"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because I
indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I won't
have it."

"I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply, stirred
out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "I said I wasn't
hungry. I don't want any breakfast."

"Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll not
have it!"

Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss of
her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the independence
and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be quarrelled with.

Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a growth
of natures which were largely independent and selfish. George, Jr.,
manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of his
individual rights, and attempted to make all feel that he was a man
with a man's privileges--an assumption which, of all things, is most
groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen.

Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it irritated
him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a world upon
which he had no hold, and of which he had a lessening understanding.

Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start to
Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was being
made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp temper was
manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority
was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer or a cynical
laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into hardly repressed
passion, and wished himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a
most irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities.

For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and control,
even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display of temper
and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more than the
feeling that she could do it. She had no special evidence wherewith to
justify herself--the knowledge of something which would give her both
authority and excuse. The latter was all that was lacking, however, to
give a solid foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent.
The clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to convert
the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath.

An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come. Doctor
Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood, met Mrs.
Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and Carrie had
taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east on
the same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite
past him. He was not so sure of Carrie--did not know whether it was
Hurstwood's wife or daughter.

"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving, do
you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.

"If I see them, I do. Where was I?"

"On Washington Boulevard." he answered, expecting her eye to light with
immediate remembrance.

She shook her head.

"Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband."

"I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering her husband's
part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of young
suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.

"I know I saw your husband," he went on. "I wasn't so sure about you.
Perhaps it was your daughter."

"Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that such
was not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had
recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details.

"Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air of
acquaintanceship with the matter.

"Yes, about two or three."

"It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to seem to
attach any importance to the incident.

The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter
as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.

Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during
the next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted that the
doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most
likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as BUSY to her.
As a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had
refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed,
take part in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion
of her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with people whom he
called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most likely, would
have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others of whom she did not
hear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent, of late? In the last
six weeks he had become strangely irritable--strangely satisfied to pick
up and go out, whether things were right or wrong in the house. Why?

She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her
now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye.
Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old
and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She was fading, while
he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. He was still an
interested factor in the merry-makings of the world, while she--but she
did not pursue the thought. She only found the whole situation bitter,
and hated him for it thoroughly.

Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did not
seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the atmosphere of
distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now and
then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by flashes
of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was merely a continuation of
other things of the same nature.

The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood
visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr. Bart
Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing establishment.
They had driven out early, and, as it chanced, encountered several
friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had attended the
performance the evening before. A thousand chances the subject of the
performance had never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged
by the attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as
possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to extend the perfunctory
greetings of some who knew her into short conversations, and the short
conversations of friends into long ones. It was from one who meant but
to greet her perfunctorily that this interesting intelligence came.

"I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most
attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder,
"that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening."

"No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he should
be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to
something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say, "What was
it?" when he added, "I saw your husband."

Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of suspicion.

"Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell me much
about it."

"Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended. There
was one actress who surprised us all."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to hear
you weren't feeling well."

Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after him
open-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled impulse
to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:

"Yes, it is too bad."

"Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?" the
acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.

The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no
opportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think for
herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him to
give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her company
not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out more.

"Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next of
Hurstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box.

"Yes. You didn't get around."

"No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well."

"So your husband told me," he answered. "Well, it was really very
enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected."

"Were there many there?"

"The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a number of
your friends--Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins."

"Quite a social gathering."

"Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much."

Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.

"So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I am sick
and cannot come."

She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was something back
of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.

By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a
state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She wanted to know
what this peculiar action of his imported. She was certain there was
more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled
well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. She,
impending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the eyes
and the rudimentary muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her
mouth.

On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the
sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had raised his
spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings joyously. He
was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of Carrie. He could
have been genial to all the world, and he bore no grudge against his
wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the
atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had been restored to him.

So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and comfortable
appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laid there by the
maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the dining-room the table was
clean laid with linen and napery and shiny with glasses and decorated
china. Through an open door he saw into the kitchen, where the fire was
crackling in the stove and the evening meal already well under way. Out
in the small back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he
had recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the
piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner of the
comfortable home. Every one, like himself, seemed to have regained his
good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and beauty, to be inclined to
joy and merry-making. He felt as if he could say a good word all around
himself, and took a most genial glance at the spread table and polished
sideboard before going upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable
armchair of the sitting-room which looked through the open windows into
the street. When he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing
her hair and musing to herself the while.

He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might still
exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwood said
nothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in making
himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. In a few
moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of a baseball
game which had taken place between the Chicago and Detroit teams.

The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him casually
through the medium of the mirror which was before her. She noticed his
pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and smiling humour, and it
merely aggravated her the more. She wondered how he could think to carry
himself so in her presence after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect
he had heretofore manifested and would continue to manifest so long as
she would endure it. She thought how she should like to tell him--what
stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she should
drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be rendered her.
Indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but weakly suspended by a
thread of thought.

In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning
a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a
bunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and
chuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife's attention
and read it to her.

"Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny."

Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning a
glance.

He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt as if
his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably still out
of humour over that affair of this morning, but that could easily be
straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but he didn't
care. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wanted to. The sooner
the better. He would tell her that as soon as he got a chance, and the
whole thing would blow over.

"Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning another
item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to compel the
Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" he asked.

She could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say "No,"
sharply.

Hurstwood pricked up his ears. There was a note in her voice which
vibrated keenly.

"It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to himself,
half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in that quarter.
He withdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly, listening
mentally for the little sounds which should show him what was on foot.

As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood--as observant and
sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his own plane
of thought--would have made the mistake which he did in regard to his
wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupied mentally with
a very different train of thought. Had not the influence of Carrie's
regard for him, the elation which her promise aroused in him, lasted
over, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant a mood. It was not
extraordinarily bright and merry this evening. He was merely very much
mistaken, and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had he
come home in his normal state.

After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that he
ought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his wife was not
going to patch up peace at a word. So he said:

"Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?"

"I don't know," she snapped.

He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window.
He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent and
agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding of
some sort.

"Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning?" he said, at
last. "We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can go to Waukesha if
you want to."

"So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she
exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was drawn
a sharp and wrathful sneer.

He stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant his persuasive,
conciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at a wink and puzzled
for a word to reply.

"What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and gazing at
the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no attention, but went
on arranging herself before the mirror.

"You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were a world of
information which she held in reserve--which she did not need to tell.

"Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for what
should come next. The finality of the woman's manner took away his
feeling of superiority in battle.

She made no answer.

"Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It was the
weakest thing he had ever done. It was totally unassured.

Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned upon him,
animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.

"I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said.

He looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a cold,
steely determination in her eye--such a cruel look of indifference.
She seemed a thorough master of her mood--thoroughly confident and
determined to wrest all control from him. He felt that all his resources
could not defend him. He must attack.

"What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to know
what's got into you to-night."

"Nothing's GOT into me," she said, flaming. "I want that money. You can
do your swaggering afterwards."

"Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me. What do you mean by
your insinuations, anyhow?"

"Where were you last night?" she answered. The words were hot as they
came. "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard? Who were you
with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you think I'm a fool to
be duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at home here and take your 'too
busys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and make out that I'm
unable to come? I want you to know that lordly airs have come to an end
so far as I am concerned. You can't dictate to me nor my children. I'm
through with you entirely."

"It's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other excuse.

"Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you may call
it a lie if you want to, but I know."

"It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "You've been
searching around for some cheap accusation for months and now you think
you have it. You think you'll spring something and get the upper hand.
Well, I tell you, you can't. As long as I'm in this house I'm master of
it, and you or any one else won't dictate to me--do you hear?"

He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous. Something
in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as if she were
already master, caused him to feel for the moment as if he could
strangle her.

She gazed at him--a pythoness in humour.

"I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what I want."

The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took the
wind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not ask her
for proofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of all his
property which she held in her name, to be shining in her glance. He
was like a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rolling and floundering
without sail.

"And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering himself,
"what you'll not get."

"We'll see about it," she said. "I'll find out what my rights are.
Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me."

It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell back
beaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contend with.
He felt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. What to say
he hardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. He was
disturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do? "Do as you please,"
he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more to do with you," and out he
strode.

When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to those
doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of decision.
She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her promise, or
that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She went over the
whole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objections
that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument.
She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that
of agreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married. She
remembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it came to walking
away from him without a word, she felt as if she were doing wrong. Now,
she was comfortably situated, and to one who is more or less afraid
of the world, this is an urgent matter, and one which puts up strange,
uncanny arguments. "You do not know what will come. There are miserable
things outside. People go a-begging. Women are wretched. You never can
tell what will happen. Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what
you have."

Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a
firm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,
and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his
part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from its
seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass,
and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This majesty of
passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it is
usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successful
mating.

Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the fire
of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. It was
strong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on Carrie's part,
we have seen. She might have been said to be imagining herself in love,
when she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows from the fact that
in each exists a bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure of
being loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with,
is one of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and
a natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It
persuades them that they are in love.

Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for
herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never
took the housemaid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one of
the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out.
To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed
was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet put
in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited and
full of determination to know all about her relations with Hurstwood.
Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong day,
he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not foresee
serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin.
Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and looking
out. "Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion
and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes you
hurry so?"

Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what
course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.

"When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.

"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?"

"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and I
thought you had gone out."

"So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk."

Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such
matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most
flagrant manner until at last she said:

"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking."

"Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude.

"Oh, nothing--nothing much."

"Well, then, what makes you look so?"

Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. He
had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the little
toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe that the
pretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory to
himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, after
all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling
in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some sort,
but he knew not what.

"Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly.

"Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie.

"Sure you did?" he asked.

"Yes, what makes you ask?"

She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drew
herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly.

"I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in the
most useless manner.

Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted.
She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition
realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.

"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty
forehead. "You act so funny to-night."

"I feel funny," he answered. They looked at one another for a moment,
and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject.

"What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.

"Me and Hurstwood--what do you mean?"

"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"

"A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you mean?"

"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here
every night."

"No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you that?"

She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not
catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the
room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with
denials.

"Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?"

"Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came."

Drouet paused for a moment and thought.

"I know what you told me," he said finally.

He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.

"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," said
Carrie, recovering herself.

"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I wouldn't
have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know."

"Who--who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.

"Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he was
delivering a telling blow.

"Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several
shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without
herself in a half-dazed way.

"Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of
order and exceedingly incriminating.

"Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet.

Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most
miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which
were anything but crumbling cowardice.

"I thought I told you," he added.

"No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. "You
didn't do anything of the kind."

Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.

"I thought I did," he said.

Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the
window.

"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet in an
injured tone, "after all I've done for you."

"You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?"

Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings--shame at
exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's deception, the
mockery he had made at her. Now one clear idea came into her head. He
was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwood
out--Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind
now about Hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? Why hadn't he
warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of
confidence and talking about what he had done for her!

"Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his
remark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal."

"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me--that's what you've
done. You've brought your old friends out here under false pretences.
You've made me out to be--Oh," and with this her voice broke and she
pressed her two little hands together tragically.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer quaintly.

"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. "No, of
course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You couldn't have
told me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out
wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with your
information and your talk about what you have done."

Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was alive
with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body
sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.

"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but
certain that he was wronged.

"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward, that's
what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn't have
thought of doing any such thing."

The drummer stared.

"I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with other men,
anyway?"

"Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men--you know better than that. I
did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't you bring him
here? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take me
out. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn't to
go with him and that he's a married man."

She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. The
knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife. "Oh," she
sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes dry. "Oh,
oh!"

"Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was away,"
insisted Drouet.

"Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's
peculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would be
to your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me--a plaything.
Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do with
you at all. You can take your old things and keep them," and unfastening
a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon the floor
and began to move about as if to gather up the things which belonged to
her.

By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He looked
at her in amazement, and finally said:

"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of this
thing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after all I
did for you."

"What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown back
and her lips parted.

"I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around.
"I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken you
everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and more
too."

Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so
far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. She
hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated. She
felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably.

"Did I ask you to?" she returned.

"Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it."

"You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You stand
there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old things. I'll
not have them. You take them to-night and do what you please with them.
I'll not stay here another minute."

"That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his own
approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk off. That's
just like a woman. I take you when you haven't got anything, and then
when some one else comes along, why I'm no good. I always thought it'd
come out that way."

He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if he
saw no way of obtaining justice.

"It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else. You
have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate you, I
tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a big,
insulting"--here she hesitated and used no word at all--"or you wouldn't
talk that way."

She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over her
little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from the
bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, red
cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes were
full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. She was
distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim or
conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the whole
difficulty would end.

"Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out, eh?
You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood or you
wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't pull out
for me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you haven't done
me right."

"I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live with you.
You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here."

"Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered.

Carrie walked over to the door.

"Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off.

"Let me out," she said.

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering out,
he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.

Carrie merely pulled at the door.

The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She made one
more vain effort and then burst into tears.

"Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want to rush
out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay here now and
be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay here any longer."

Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so overcome
she could not speak.

"Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You can go if
you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, I don't want
to stop you."

He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the influence
of his plea.

"You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last.

Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loose
from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by this
thought, angered by that--her own injustice, Hurstwood's, Drouet's,
their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of the
world outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility
of this state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, the
effect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass
of jangling fibres--an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could
do absolutely nothing but drift.

"Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a new
idea, and putting his hand upon her.

"Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchief
from her eyes. "Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay
here until the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what
you want to do. Eh?"

Carrie made no answer.

"You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up now.
You can't go anywhere."

Still he got nothing for his words.

"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get out."

Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the window.

"Will you do that?" he asked.

Still no answer.

"Will you?" he repeated.

She only looked vaguely into the street.

"Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?"

"I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.

"Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking about it.
It'll be the best thing for you."

Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer reasonably.
She felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in her had
not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was in a most
helpless plight.

As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover. Now his
feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at losing Carrie,
misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in some way or other, and
yet his rights included the retaining of Carrie, the making her feel her
error.

"Will you?" he urged.

"Well, I'll see," said Carrie.

This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It looked
as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get some way of
talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouet aggrieved. He
pretended to take up the task of packing some things in a valise.

Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain sound
thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had she done?
He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. Throughout this
argument he had said nothing very harsh. On the other hand, there
was Hurstwood--a greater deceiver than he. He had pretended all this
affection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. Oh,
the perfidy of men! And she had loved him. There could be nothing more
in that quarter. She would see Hurstwood no more. She would write him
and let him know what she thought. Thereupon what would she do? Here
were these rooms. Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain. Evidently
things could go on here somewhat as before, if all were arranged. It
would be better than the street, without a place to lay her head.

All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collars and
laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was in no
hurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which would
not down. He could not think that the thing would end by his walking out
of the room. There must be some way round, some way to make her own up
that he was right and she was wrong--to patch up a peace and shut
out Hurstwood for ever. Mercy, how he turned at the man's shameless
duplicity.

"Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that you'll try
and get on the stage?"

He was wondering what she was intending.

"I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie.

"If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in that
line."

She made no answer to this.

"Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me help
you," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here."

Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.

"I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way."

He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on.

"Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time,
"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?"

"Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You were to
blame."

"No, I wasn't," he answered.

"Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever told me such
a story as that."

"But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on Drouet,
anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her.

"I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn the
peace arrangement had taken.

"What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer,
stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You might let
me know where I stand, at least."

"I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whatever has
happened is your own fault."

"Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely and
experiencing a rush of feeling.

"Oh, stop!" said Carrie. "Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed
Drouet. "You may trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't
lead me. You can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool
any longer!"

He shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his valise
and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat, which he had
laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out.

"You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as he
reached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with a
jerk and closed it equally vigorously.

Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything else
at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly believe
her senses--so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. It was
not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A real flame of love
is a subtle thing. It burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to
fairylands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the
quality upon which it feeds.

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

completion: "The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that jealousy, having been born out of love, did not perish with it." Mrs. Hurstwood maintains a form of jealousy that turns itself into hatred. She is resentful and suspicious of Hurstwood as she observes his youthful demeanor. Mrs. Hurstwood learns from the family doctor that Hurstwood had been driving recently on the Boulevard. Since she knows it was not their daughter Jessica who was with him and certainly not herself, she concludes that Hurstwood is seeing another woman. The day after Carrie's theater appearance, Mrs. Hurstwood hears from a few acquaintances how sorry they were to learn she was "ill" and could not attend. She broods herself "into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge." Hurstwood returns home from business in a sunny mood, hoping to improve relations somewhat with his wife. With a "wrathful sneer" Mrs. Hurstwood accuses him of "trifling around." It seems to Hurstwood that she knows much more about his recent activities then she reveals. As tempers flare, Mrs. Hurstwood threatens to consult her lawyer and Hurstwood leaves the room. Once again Carrie is fraught with doubt and indecision. Is it wise to leave the secure relationship she has with Drouet on the chance that Hurstwood will marry her? Upon returning home that evening, Drouet begins to cross examine Carrie about her relations with Hurstwood, revealing to her that Hurstwood is married. To his surprise Carrie attacks him for not warning her earlier about Hurstwood. The argument wavers back and forth until Drouet packs his clothes and leaves in a fit of jealous anger.


prompt:
Chapter: That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer
House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered state of
mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon
his entire future. While he was not sure how much significance might be
attached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if
long continued, would cause him no end of trouble. She was determined,
and had worsted him in a very important contest. How would it be from
now on? He walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his
room, putting one thing and another together to no avail.

Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage
by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up
her work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her word
LAW in the future. He would have to pay her the money which she would
now regularly demand or there would be trouble. It did not matter what
he did. She really did not care whether he came home any more or not.
The household would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she
could do as she wished without consulting any one. Now she proposed to
consult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out at once just
what advantages she could gain.

Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of
his situation. "She has that property in her name," he kept saying to
himself. "What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool move that
was."

He also thought of his managerial position. "If she raises a row now
I'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in the
papers. My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he thought of the talk
any action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about it?
Every man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and deny
and make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with
him and there would be the devil to pay.

Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this,
and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything--not a loophole
left.

Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the
approaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did
not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of
trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad
to wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned out to-morrow, and
then he would talk to her. They were going to meet as usual. He saw only
her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged
so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained. How
much more pleasant it would be. Then he would take up his wife's threat
again, and the wrinkles and moisture would return.

In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but
there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he
felt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the
envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began
to feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the
office, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop
in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While
the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with
him no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to think,
perhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this thing would not
drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out.

His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and
waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour
or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something
have happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached
by his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never
once occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as
he ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had not
been able to get away this morning. That was why no letter notifying him
had come. He would get one to-day. It would probably be on his desk when
he got back. He would look for it at once.

After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison car.
To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little
fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the east, and
by the time he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all
afternoon.

He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie.
Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his
stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he
needed to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be in
an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words.

At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned a
messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a
feeling of doubt.

"I'm to bring an answer," said the boy.

Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and read
without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was
sharply and coldly worded throughout.

"I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry
out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't matter in the
least. But I must have some money. So don't delay, but send it by the
boy."

When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity
of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also--the deepest
element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words
in reply--"Go to the devil!"--but he compromised by telling the boy that
there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without
seeing, contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about
that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him into
submission? He would go up there and have it out with her, that's what
he would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These were
his first thoughts.

Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to
be done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well
enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it
up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once.

"Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make it
hot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if I
have to use force to do it!"

He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The
long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers
at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless;
umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth
roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a
noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they
could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting
his wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he
worked her bodily harm.

At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the
money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before
Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get
it.

Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.
Yes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her--he would go up
there and have a talk with her, and that at once.

He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have some
arrangement of this thing.

He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North
Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the
case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd got hold of
Carrie, who knows--or--or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and
was prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush.
She was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good
grounds?

He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other--that he
had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and
see, anyhow. He would have no row. By the time he reached his own street
he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and wished over
and over that some solution would offer itself, that he could see his
way out. He alighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was
with a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried
to insert it, but another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob,
but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No answer. He rang
again--this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it fiercely several
times in succession, but without avail. Then he went below.

There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,
protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars.
When he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the
kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and then
waited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back
to his cab.

"I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the individual who
was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin raincoat.

"I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby.

Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily
into the cab, relieved and distressed.

So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by
the Lord, that did beat all!

When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater quandary
than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into? How could
things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He could hardly
realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous, unnatural,
unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him without his
let or hindrance.

Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be the
trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any kind, and
yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that
morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off--where? He saw
that in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan
upon that score. He was desperately in love, and would have taken great
chances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now--now what?
Supposing she had found out something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and
told him that she knew all--that she would have nothing more to do with
him? It would be just like this to happen as things were going now.
Meanwhile he had not sent the money.

He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in
his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting some vague
comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which
affected him. Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap
his foot--signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing. His
whole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding
what limits the mind has to endurance. He drank more brandy and soda
than he had any evening in months. He was altogether a fine example of
great mental perturbation.

For all his study nothing came of the evening except this--he sent the
money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the
most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an
envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up.

Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.

"You take this to this address," he said, handing him the envelope, "and
give it to Mrs. Hurstwood."

"Yes, sir," said the boy.

"If she isn't there bring it back."

"Yes, sir"

"You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy
turned to go.

"Oh, yes, sir. I know her."

"All right, now. Hurry right back."

"Any answer?"

"I guess not."

The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he had
done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for
to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the
wretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the boy
at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the envelope and
know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter back he wouldn't
send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.

For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who
were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it
was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and
see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was wondering what
she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.

In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had evidently
delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking
anything out of his pocket.

"Well?" said Hurstwood.

"I gave it to her."

"My wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any answer?"

"She said it was high time."

Hurstwood scowled fiercely.

There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went on
brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to
the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and
slept anything but soundly upon it. Next day he went again to the office
and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents. No word
from Carrie. Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.

The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it
worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done
it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. He
fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or
two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think.

This process of THINKING began by a reversion to Carrie and the
arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How about that
now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly increased as
he devoted himself to this subject. He decided to write her care of the
West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have
her meet him. The thought that this letter would probably not reach
her until Monday chafed him exceedingly. He must get some speedier
method--but how?

He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or a
cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding that
time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and then began
to think again.

The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had
contemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by now in
the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was afternoon and
nothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and no letter. The
helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the gloom of defeat.
He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in, and nothing done.
All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home,
from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie, and without the ability
to alter his condition one iota. It was the worst Sunday he had spent in
his life.

In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter,
which held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of the law
offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal "Dear Sir,"
and "We beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that they had been
retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matters which related
to her sustenance and property rights, and would he kindly call and see
them about the matter at once.

He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook his
head. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning.

"Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know."

Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket.

To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quite certain
now that she knew he was married and was angered at his perfidy. His
loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her most. He thought
he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did not send him word
of some sort soon. He was really affected most miserably of all by
this desertion. He had loved her earnestly enough, but now that the
possibility of losing her stared him in the face she seemed much more
attractive. He really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his
mind's eye in the most wistful manner. He did not propose to lose her,
whatever she might think. Come what might, he would adjust this matter,
and soon. He would go to her and tell her all his family complications.
He would explain to her just where he stood and how much he needed her.
Surely she couldn't go back on him now? It wasn't possible. He would
plead until her anger would melt--until she would forgive him.

Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there--suppose she has
gone?"

He was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of and sit
still.

Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.

On Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himself into the
mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he thought he
saw a man watching him and went away. He did not go within a block of
the house.

One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back on a
Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite the
building of the concern with which his son was connected. This sent a
pang through his heart. He had called on his boy there several times.
Now the lad had not sent him a word. His absence did not seem to be
noticed by either of his children. Well, well, fortune plays a man queer
tricks. He got back to his office and joined in a conversation with
friends. It was as if idle chatter deadened the sense of misery.

That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his office. In
the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. He troubled over
many little details and talked perfunctorily to everybody. He stayed at
his desk long after all others had gone, and only quitted it when the
night watchman on his round pulled at the front door to see if it was
safely locked.

On Wednesday he received another polite note from McGregor, James and
Hay. It read:

"Dear Sir: We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until
to-morrow (Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on
behalf of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. If we do not
hear from you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish to
compromise the matter in any way and act accordingly.

"Very truly yours, etc."

"Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. "Compromise!"

Again he shook his head.

So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what to
expect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly. If he
did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil. He folded
the letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on his hat and
went for a turn about the block.

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

completion: Hurstwood leaves his home to take a room in a hotel. Uncertain of what his wife will do next, he is forced into inaction. Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, proceeds to press her advantage and begins to make heavy demands of money. Cursing himself for placing his property in her name some years ago, Hurstwood is further distressed by the possibility that she will carry news of his behavior to his employers. He turns from these thoughts to thoughts of Carrie, telling himself that she will wait for him. In the morning he goes to his office to check the mail, dreading to hear from his wife but hoping to hear from Carrie. Next he goes to the park to wait for Carrie but she does not appear. As he mounts a streetcar, it begins to rain, which only adds to his distress. Once again he checks his mail. After lunch, a messenger arrives with a demand for money from Mrs. Hurstwood, but he sends the boy away with no reply. Later another demand arrives, threatening to expose him to Fitzgerald and Moy if he does not send the money asked. Hurstwood decides to deliver the money himself, and takes a cab through the dreary rain only to find himself locked out of his own home. He returns dejectedly to his office. In the meantime, he has received no word from Carrie and begins to suspect that perhaps she has heard all about him. All day his thoughts range back and forth between Carrie and his new problems. The weekend is spent in much "mental perturbation." Monday's mail brings a letter from his wife's attorneys asking him to call. Hurstwood does not respond. On Tuesday he drives out to Carrie's apartment but leaves before seeing her because he thinks he is being followed. On Wednesday another note from the attorneys reveals that Mrs. Hurstwood has begun divorce proceedings. Now Hurstwood knows what to expect. If he does not see the lawyers he will be sued for divorce promptly. If he does, he will "be offered terms that would make his blood boil."


prompt:
Chapter: Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely
realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed out. It was
some moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now
exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the rooms, out of which
the evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite
the same towards them. She went over to the dresser and struck a match,
lighting the gas. Then she went back to the rocker to think.

It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she
did, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.
Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear anything
more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last long. She
would have to quit them.

To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood. She
could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret. For
a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human
depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash. She
would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet she could
not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only this one deed
seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with all she felt
and knew concerning the man.

But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How
about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look
around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken
about that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep
and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell
completely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking
it over.

She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in
the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts. She
looked at these things with certain misgivings. The contemplation of
food had more significance than usual.

While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had. It
struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look
for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in
bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the insignificance
of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of
the month. She began also to think what she would have done if she had
gone out into the street when she first started. By the side of that
situation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable. She
had a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out
all right, after all.

Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He
only acted as if he were huffy. He would come back--of course he would.
There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his collars. He had
left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked about and tried to
assure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the
secondary thought arrived. Supposing he did come back. Then what?

Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing. She
would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to admit
that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with him.

On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and the
passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have
been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her
exceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she
felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street dress,
and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion once again.
She must look for work.

The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served equally
well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors as it did
to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day.

The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters, and
besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass shining
exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she went out
the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses. She could not
help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that life was a
joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she wished over
and over that something might interfere now to preserve for her the
comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want Drouet or his
money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with Hurstwood,
but only the content and ease of mind she had experienced, for, after
all, she had been happy--happier, at least, than she was now when
confronted by the necessity of making her way alone.

When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock,
and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at
first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result
of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She
wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to
look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was
not necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to
encounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that
she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of
self-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew
that she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed. Her
clothes were becoming, and men--well-dressed men, some of the kind
who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished
railings and imposing office partitions--now gazed into her face with a
soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and satisfaction
of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She looked for nothing
save what might come legitimately and without the appearance of special
favour. She wanted something, but no man should buy her by false
protestations or favour. She proposed to earn her living honestly.

"This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and satisfactory
legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to enter and inquire
for work. It gave her an excuse, and after encountering quite a number
of them, and noting that the clock registered 12.15, she decided that it
would be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a car and went to
Lincoln Park. There was always something to see there--the flowers, the
animals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be
up betimes and searching. Besides, many things might happen between now
and Monday.

Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows
what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the thought
would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing whip, that
action--immediate action--was imperative. At other times she would look
about her and assure herself that things were not so bad--that certainly
she would come out safe and sound. At such times she would think of
Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw some chance for
herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that opportunity on the
morrow.

Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made, but
she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre
buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one about the
theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was anything,
you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.

She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever, and
did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. She only
knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all things, she
did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her intimacy
with his wife.

There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera House,
which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, David A.
Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one or two
elaborate performances there and had heard of several others. She
knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she
instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly
strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely enough to the
showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with
framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet
box-office, but she could get no further. A noted comic opera comedian
was holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity
overawed her. She could not imagine that there would be anything in such
a lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which might
have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find heart only to
look at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. It seemed to
her as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy
to think of applying in that quarter again.

This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked
around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of
several playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the Grand Opera House and
McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions--and then came
away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored
sense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her
claims upon society, such as she understood them to be.

That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and protracted
stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune
of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave
herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet had not put in an
appearance. She had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a
dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It was
evident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no
resource.

In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren
Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her
home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could
not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction. Nothing but
sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.
That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a
cruel thing.

Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. She
was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth
upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she
considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to
revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage
to approach.

She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.

"Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by
Carrie's looks.

"I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.

"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow," volunteered
the young man. "He's out of town."

He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish to see
about?"

"I want to see about getting a position," she answered.

"You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but he
isn't here now."

"When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
information.

"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here after
two o'clock."

Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed
after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.

"Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself.

One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
engagement at the Grand Opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the
manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of this
individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been
sent on from New York to fill it.

"His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.

Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk--the
manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she
should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of
whom--the occupants of the window--were already observing her carefully.

"I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr. Frohman's
never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!"

Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one motioned
her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been talking
went away quite crestfallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at some
papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.

"Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,
Harris?"

"No," said the person addressed. "What was it?" "Made quite a curtain
address at Hooley's last night. Better look it up."

Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald."

"What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for
the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets.

Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She
realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain. Of
this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called
for advice.

"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"

It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She
was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the
simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as did
the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal
their humour.

"I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have you ever
had any experience upon the stage?"

"A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur
performances."

She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his
interest.

"Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended as
much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.

"No, sir."

"Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair
while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on the stage?"

She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer to
his engaging smirk, and say:

"I need to make a living."

"Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as
if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's a good reason,
isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what you want to do.
You ought to be in New York. There's more chance there. You could hardly
expect to get started out here." Carrie smiled genially, grateful that
he should condescend to advise her even so much. He noticed the smile,
and put a slightly different construction on it. He thought he saw an
easy chance for a little flirtation.

"Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk
and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear.
Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.

"Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so addressing
the manager. "See you this afternoon."

"All right," said the manager.

The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.

"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?" asked
the manager softly.

"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with."

"I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

The manager smiled most blandly.

"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming a
more confidential air.

Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in
his manner.

"No," she said.

"That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage.
It's a good way to get experience."

He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive
manner.

"I didn't know that," said Carrie.

"It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a chance, you
know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and
consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said, "and I've got to
go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with me? We can talk it
over there."

"Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at
once. "I have an engagement myself."

"That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come in
later. I may know of something."

"Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation and went out.

"She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion, who
had not caught all the details of the game he had played.

"Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been lost.
"She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus girl--that's
all."

This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the
manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a
time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that there
was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish.

"Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be in New
York."

Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not find
any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person to whom
she was referred was not to be found.

These little expeditions took up her time until quite four o'clock, when
she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to continue
and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. She
took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour,
but decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where
she was accustomed to receive Hurstwood's letters. There was one
there now, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled
feelings. There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her
having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather
pitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished
and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the
thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write
and let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly
incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all over
between them.

At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for
she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.

"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she wrote
in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to have
anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances. Oh,
how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "You have
caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get over your
infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye."

She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it
reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she
should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.

This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young
women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was
asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.

"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are you
experienced?"

At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much the
same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly
they would like to have her.

When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella
and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but
could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.

So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?
Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day
or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together
in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears
gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,
very much alone.

Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from
that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify
his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his
wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.

Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out.
He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and
would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on
the stair.

When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just
come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his
need of his clothes and find out how things stood.

Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around
among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival he changed
to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the
rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a
cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window
and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He
began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his
umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It
would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others.
He would find out how things stood.

As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There
was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the
little jacket he had first bought her--her face a little more wistful
than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked into
the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.

"You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing her in
the flesh.

Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out.

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

completion: The focus of the narrative shifts back to Carrie sitting alone in her rocking chair after Drouet's departure. She realizes that he may never return and so begins to formulate plans for the future. Certainly she cannot go to Hurstwood for aid, for she is shocked by the "evidence of human depravity" she sees in the man. Pausing for a bite of food, Carrie begins to wonder how much money she has left. She discovers she has but seven dollars; however, the rent has been paid to the end of the month. She must leave the apartment then, for she cannot go on living with Drouet even if he did return. On the next day, Friday, Carrie sets out to find work, but she must return home because of the same rain that dampened Hurstwood's spirits. Carrie visits a few shops on Saturday morning, discovering how her new appearance causes the men of business to be much more polite than they had been the previous winter. Nevertheless, she is determined not to take advantage of special favors and gives up the search for the time being. Remembering Drouet's advice about going on the stage, she arises Monday morning and begins the round of theaters, looking for a small part. She meets two troupe managers, both of whom advise her that she must seek theatrical work in New York. That afternoon she drafts a letter to Hurstwood, telling him, "You have caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get over your infatuation for me. We must not meet any more." The next morning she mails the letter and begins in vain to seek employment in the large department stores. While she is out, Drouet returns to make amends, but finding the apartment empty, he leaves. He does plan to return soon, however.