prompt:
Chapter: Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was putting
the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when
a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. It included a familiar
voice.

"Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda."

"You'll have to send in your card."

"Oh, come off! Here."

A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her dressing-room
door. Carrie opened it.

"Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew that
was you the moment I saw you."

Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.

"Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy! That's
all right, shake hands."

Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's
exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed. The
same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance.

"That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I paid
him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great show. You do
your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be passing to
night and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw your name on the
programme, but I didn't remember it until you came on the stage. Then
it struck me all at once. Say, you could have knocked me down with a
feather. That's the same name you used out there in Chicago, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance.

"I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been, anyhow?"

"Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She was
rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?"

"Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now."

"Is that so?" said Carrie.

"Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch here."

"How nice!"

"Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet.

"About three years ago," said Carrie.

"You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it. I knew
you would, though. I always said you could act--didn't I?"

Carrie smiled.

"Yes, you did," she said.

"Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve so.
You're taller, aren't you?"

"Me? Oh, a little, maybe."

He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was set
jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to avert.
Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once and
without modification.

"Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and the
like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out to dinner with
me; won't you? I've got a friend out here."

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an early engagement
to-morrow."

"Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want to
have a good talk with you."

"No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I don't
care for a late dinner."

"Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow."

"Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talk some
other time."

As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his face,
as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed. Good-nature
dictated something better than this for one who had always liked her.

"You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of penance
for error. "You can take dinner with me."

"All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?"

"At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then
but newly erected.

"What time?"

"Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly.

The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that
Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as
ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to
whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as
volubly as ever.

"They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first remark.

"Yes; they do," said Carrie.

Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed account of
his own career.

"I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed in one
place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars."

Carrie listened most good-naturedly.

"Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?"

Carrie flushed a little.

"He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen him for some
time."

Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the
ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He imagined
not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that Carrie had got
rid of him--as well she ought, he thought. "A man always makes a mistake
when he does anything like that," he observed.

"Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.

"Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his
hand.

"No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?"

"Why that affair in Chicago--the time he left."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could it be he
would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?

"Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten thousand
dollars with him when he left, didn't you?"

"What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?"

"Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't you?"

"Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't."

"Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was in all the
papers."

"How much did you say he took?" said Carrie.

"Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards,
though."

Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was
shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now
a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took
it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of
sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his
head all the time.

At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood,
fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for
him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into
her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How
beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf
setting, Carrie was to him the all desirable.

"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" he
asked.

Carrie smiled to think of it.

"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he added
ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and I were
going to get along fine those days."

"You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of
coldness.

"Won't you let me tell you----"

"No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting ready for
the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now." "Oh, stay a minute,"
pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of time."

"No," said Carrie, gently.

Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her to
the elevator and, standing there, said:

"When do I see you again?"

"Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here all summer.
Good-night!"

The elevator door was open.

"Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in.

Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived,
because she was now so far off. The merry frou-frou of the place spoke
all of her. He thought himself hardly dealt with. Carrie, however, had
other thoughts.

That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the Casino,
without observing him.

The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face to
face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if
he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise the shabby, baggy
figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger.

"Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?"

She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had lurked
any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, she
remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the money.

"Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?"

"I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of the hospital. For
God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?"

"Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to
maintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you, anyhow?"

She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it--a
five and two twos.

"I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting her
excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a source.

"Here," she said. "It's all I have with me."

"All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you some day."

Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt the
strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.

"Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked, hardly
knowing what to do. "Where are you living?"

"Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's no use
trying to tell you here. I'm all right now."

He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries--so much better had
fate dealt with her.

"Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't bother you
any more."

She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward the
east.

For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to wear
partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by
her. His attentions seemed out of place.

"I'm out," was her reply to the boy.

So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she
was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye--she was so quiet
and reserved.

Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. A
second summer season did not seem to promise well here.

"How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager, one
afternoon.

"It might be just the other way," said Carrie.

"I think we'll go in June," he answered.

In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouet
were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, and
exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of
his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion--the old days had gone
for good.

"She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not
believe this.

Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A
small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging,
sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him over
more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, in
the press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest.
Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in
a new play; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about the
city, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazed
nightly upon the crowded street of amusements. Drouet saw it, but did
not venture in.

About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little success
in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of course,
he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was nothing
responsive between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood,
until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he did not profess
to understand, and refrained from comment.

With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly.

"She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do better
than that."

One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very
friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen
interest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because
at that time he had represented something which she did not have; but
this she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary feeling
that she was now blessed with much of which he would approve. As a
matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He
thought she could have done better, by far.

"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering her
interest in that form of art.

"No," she answered; "I haven't, so far."

He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had
failed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though."

"I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of disposition
that would do well in comedy-drama."

It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then, so
clearly in his mind?

"Why?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your
nature."

Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with
her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal was
sounding.

"I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all
concealment.

"I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy."

This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but
later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring
at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard work
had given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for Carrie
to know the thing in it which appealed to her.

"All alone?" she said.

"I was listening to the music."

"I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in the
inventor.

Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he
sat.

"Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening.

"Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was
called.

"Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him.

They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling,
only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in
the old days.

"I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved by the
inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always makes me
feel as if I wanted something--I----"

"Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel."

Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition,
expressing her feelings so frankly.

"You ought not to be melancholy," he said.

He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation
which, however, accorded with their feelings.

"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can
occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our hands
over the far-off things."

The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, as
if to rest himself.

"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He was
looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large, sympathetic
eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment.

"Perhaps I shall," she returned.

"That's your field," he added.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there
is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of
work."

Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, loneliness
deserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical.

"It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I remember
thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something peculiar
about your mouth. I thought you were about to cry."

"How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heart
craved.

"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I saw it
again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much
this same character. It's in the depth of them, I think."

Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.

"You probably are not aware of it," he added.

She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equal
to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the door to
a new desire. She had cause to ponder over this until they met
again--several weeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from
the old ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery
stage and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it?

"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you had
a more dramatic part. I've studied it out----"

"What is it?" said Carrie.

"Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in your
face is one that comes out in different things. You get the same thing
in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply. It's a
thing the world likes to see, because it's a natural expression of its
longing."

Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.

"The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on. "Most
people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend upon
others. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their desires for
them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play. Sometimes
nature does it in a face--it makes the face representative of all
desire. That's what has happened in your case."

He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes
that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was
something which represented the world's longing. She took it to heart as
a creditable thing, until he added:

"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this
thing. It is no credit to you--that is, I mean, you might not have had
it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must do
something with it."

"What?" asked Carrie.

"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy and
such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make your
powers endure."

Carrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed her that her
comedy success was little or nothing.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in
your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and
live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look
will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act will
disappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes care of
that."

He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes
became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in
Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.

"I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.

"If I were you," he said, "I'd change."

The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled
over it in her rocking-chair for days.

"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she
eventually remarked to Lola.

"Oh, why not?" said the latter.

"I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play."

"What put that idea in your head?"

"Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so."

Still, she did nothing--grieving. It was a long way to this better
thing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and
longing.

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

completion: Carrie's in her dressing room when she hears "a familiar voice." No, it's not Hurstwood. It's a blast from her past: Drouet. Remember him? He's stopping by to congratulate Carrie on her success, and invites her to come out with him and his friend. She declines, but invites him to dinner the next night at her latest pad: the Waldorf, a super fancy famous hotel in NYC. Drouet and Carrie meet up for lunch. When Drouet asks about Hurstwood. Carrie only says that she thinks he's still in New York. Drouet fills her in about Hurstwood having stolen the money back in Chicago, and she's shocked. Hearing the news actually makes her feel sorry for Hurstwood. Drouet flirts a bit with Carrie, trying to rekindle their flame, but she's not having it and she leaves. The next night on her way into the theater, Carrie runs smack into Hurstwood, who's hanging around waiting for her. She hardly recognizes him because he looks so bad, and when he asks for money, she immediately gives it to him. She asks what's wrong with him and he says that he's been sick and that he's living in a room in the Bowery. Then he leaves. Carrie becomes withdrawn. The show she's starring in gets transferred to London and it looks like she's setting off for England--cheerio. Months pass, during which Hurstwood continues to suffer homelessness and Carrie returns from London to New York to appear in a new Broadway play. And Ames is back, and he and Mrs. Vance go to see Carrie in a play. But Carrie is no longer romantically interested in Ames. She seems to still be pretty influenced by his opinions, though, and he tells her that she would be better off doing comedy-dramas than comedies because she's more suited to that genre. Carrie tells Lola--surprise, surprise--that she wants to start doing drama.


prompt:
Chapter: In the city, at that time, there were a number of charities similar in
nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now patronised in a
like unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-house of the Sisters of
Mercy in Fifteenth Street--a row of red brick family dwellings, before
the door of which hung a plain wooden contribution box, on which was
painted the statement that every noon a meal was given free to all those
who might apply and ask for aid. This simple announcement was modest in
the extreme, covering, as it did, a charity so broad. Institutions and
charities are so large and so numerous in New York that such things as
this are not often noticed by the more comfortably situated. But to one
whose mind is upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection.
Unless one were looking up this matter in particular, he could have
stood at Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour
and never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along
that busy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some
weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenance
and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none the less
true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it became.
Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house, compelled an
arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty eating at one
time, so that a line had to be formed outside and an orderly entrance
effected. This caused a daily spectacle which, however, had become
so common by repetition during a number of years that now nothing was
thought of it. The men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest
weather--waited for several hours before they could be admitted. No
questions were asked and no service rendered. They ate and went away
again, some of them returning regularly day after day the winter
through.

A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door during
the entire operation and counted the admissible number. The men moved up
in solemn order. There was no haste and no eagerness displayed. It was
almost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weather this line was to be
found here. Under an icy wind there was a prodigious slapping of hands
and a dancing of feet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as if
severely nipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light proved
them to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class that sit on
the park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon them during
the summer nights. They frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels
East Side streets where poor clothes and shrunken features are not
singled out as curious. They are the men who are in the lodginghouse
sitting-rooms during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the
cheaper shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East
Side streets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played
havoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,
hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were a
sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, their ears
anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at heel
and toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts, every
wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a stormy
shore.

For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city,
Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would
come for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of Broadway
and Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twenty years about
three hundred men had formed in line and at the appointed time marched
past the doorway, picked their loaf from a great box placed just
outside, and vanished again into the night. From the beginning to the
present time there had been little change in the character or number of
these men. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar to
those who had seen this little procession pass year after year. Two
of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. There were about
forty, more or less, regular callers. The remainder of the line was
formed of strangers. In times of panic and unusual hardships there were
seldom more than three hundred. In times of prosperity, when little is
heard of the unemployed, there were seldom less. The same number,
winter and summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this
melancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.

At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was now
on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it was peculiarly
cold, and finding no comfort in begging about the streets, he waited
until noon before seeking this free offering to the poor. Already, at
eleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he had shambled forward
out of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes flapping and fluttering in the
wind. They leaned against the iron railing which protects the walls of
the Ninth Regiment Armory, which fronts upon that section of Fifteenth
Street, having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour to
wait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but others coming
up, they moved closer in order to protect their right of precedence. To
this collection Hurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenue
and stopped close to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who
had been waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by a
certain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that
they were first.

Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the
line, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order had been
restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.

"Must be pretty near noon," ventured one.

"It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."

"Gee, but it's cold!"

They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery man
drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started some
words upon grocery men and the cost of food in general.

"I see meat's gone up," said one.

"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot."

The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more,
and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated
themselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. There
was much jerking of heads, and looking down the line.

"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in the
first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You all go
in together."

"Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdily displaced.

"This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain't going to
be no order till it comes."

For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling, glancing, and
beating their arms.

At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared. She
only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one, passed
in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout arm, and
the line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the ex-manager was
one. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of
it; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, having
eaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting it.

At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he was
at the midnight offering of a loaf--waiting patiently. It had been
an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch of
philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in the
evening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes before twelve,
a great box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a portly,
round-faced German took position by it, calling "Ready." The whole
line at once moved forward each taking his loaf in turn and going
his separate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went
plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed.

By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him. Life
had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and weakened
vitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and inconspicuous.
Several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he thought he would
end his troubles; but with a change of weather, or the arrival of a
quarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he would wait. Each day he
would find some old paper lying about and look into it, to see if there
was any trace of Carrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain.
Then he noticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and this
ailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of the lodgings
he frequented, he did not attempt to read. Bad and irregular eating was
weakening every function of his body. The one recourse left him was to
doze when a place offered and he could get the money to occupy it.

He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre state of
body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and beggar. Police
hustled him along, restaurant and lodginghouse keepers turned him out
promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved him off. He found
it more and more difficult to get anything from anybody.

At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after a
long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused and
refused--every one hastening from contact.

"Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to the last one.
"For God's sake, do; I'm starving."

"Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common type himself.
"You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'."

Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tears came
into his eyes.

"That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. I had money.
I'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, he started down
toward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before and died; why
shouldn't he? He remembered a lodginghouse where there were little,
close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, for
what he wanted to do, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he remembered
that he had no fifteen cents.

On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming, clean-shaven,
out of a fine barber shop.

"Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this man boldly.

The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing but
quarters were in his pocket.

"Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off, now."

Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coin
pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he could
get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed, for the
time being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get nothing but
insults that death seemed worth while.

One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the season
set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the second
snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by
nightfall, and this he had spent for food. At evening he found himself
at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned
his face Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wandering
propensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged his
wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was
turned up about his red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled down
until it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.

"I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself.

When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were already blazing
brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright windows, at
every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants.
There were coaches and crowded cable cars.

In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The
contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.
"What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this."

People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure.
Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did not
beg of anybody.

Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through
the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign,
and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and
gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware,
and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had become, his
hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He stopped stock
still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly
in.

"Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."

Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy it
had.

"It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."

At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent fire,
Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the Casino Company." All
the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. It was so
bright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked up, and then at
a large, gilt-framed posterboard, on which was a fine lithograph of
Carrie, lifesize.

Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as
if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that his
mind was not exactly clear.

He approached that entrance and went in.

"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he went
over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.

"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.

"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. "Get out
of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist.

"I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was being
hustled away. "I'm all right. I----"

The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,
Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vague
sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.

"God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush from his
worthless coat. "I--I hired such people as you once."

Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up--just one fierce, angry
thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.

"She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me."

Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward and
away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after another,
as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.

It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one distinct
mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, the sombre hue of
night was thickening the air. A heavy snow was falling--a fine picking,
whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The
streets were bedded with it--six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to
a dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway
men picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men
slouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In
the former thoroughfare businessmen and travellers were making for
comfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted
past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already
gleaming. There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter
was reduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffled
by this fast-thickening mantle.

In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading at this
time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. It was so strong,
and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest, that she
caught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. For the first
time, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless had been
her earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however, she yawned
and came to the window, looking out upon the old winding procession of
carriages rolling up Fifth Avenue.

"Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola.

"Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snows enough
to go sleigh riding."

"Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriot were
still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for the people
who haven't anything to-night?"

"Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven't anything."

Carrie smiled.

"You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned.

"I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anything when I was
hard up."

"Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm.

"Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sight of
some one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall, don't
they?"

"We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie absently.

In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was just arriving,
shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weather had driven him
home early and stirred his desire for those pleasures which shut out the
snow and gloom of life. A good dinner, the company of a young woman, and
an evening at the theatre were the chief things for him.

"Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of the
comfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?"

"Oh, about six and six," said the other. "Rotten weather, isn't it?"

"Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sitting here
thinking where I'd go to-night."

"Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to something
dead swell."

"Who is it?" said the other.

"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have a
dandy time. I was just looking for you."

"Supposing you get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?"

"Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes."

"Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get a
shave."

"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward the
elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.

On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour
through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.

"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor was
announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and
jacket.

"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, a
black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a
euchre hand away from her.

"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that fine
raiment can make.

"Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more, though."

"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing
can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it's coming up."

Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at
a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty, even
cold, is fascinating from one point of view.

"Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It only takes
two weeks to get to Rome."

Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It was so
nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--one whose financial
state had borne her personal inspection.

"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if it
keeps up like this?"

"Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference."

Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of
Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did not
hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a specially
conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away.
It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her pride satisfied.

At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four story building in a
side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had been
changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men--a crowd which
had been, and was still, gathering by degrees.

It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closed
wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on faded
derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy with melted
snow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were mere bags, frayed
at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides
and worn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go in, but shifted
ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering
at the crowd and the increasing lamps. With the minutes, increased the
number. There were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men
who were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who were
middle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in the thick of the
collection which was as white as drained veal. There was another red as
brick. Some came with thin, rounded shoulders, others with wooden legs,
still others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them.
There were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red,
blood-shot eyes. Not a normal, healthy face in the whole mass; not a
straight figure; not a straightforward, steady glance.

In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another. There
were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red with cold.
There were ears, half covered by every conceivable semblance of a hat,
which still looked stiff and bitten. In the snow they shifted, now one
foot, now another, almost rocking in unison.

With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It was not
conversation, but a running comment directed at any one in general. It
contained oaths and slang phrases.

"By damn, I wish they'd hurry up."

"Look at the copper watchin'."

"Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!"

"I wisht I was in Sing Sing."

Now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. It was an
edging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, no pleading, no
threatening words. It was all sullen endurance, unlightened by either
wit or good fellowship.

A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of the
men nearest the door saw it.

"Look at the bloke ridin'."

"He ain't so cold."

"Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long since passed out
of hearing.

Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turned
out on its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps. The
cross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing, and
every window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowd hung
about the door, unwavering.

"Ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice,
suggestively.

This seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and many
gazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look, as dogs
paw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked and muttered,
now a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and still the snow whirled
and cut them with biting flakes. On the old hats and peaked shoulders it
was piling. It gathered in little heaps and curves and no one brushed
it off. In the centre of the crowd the warmth and steam melted it, and
water trickled off hat rims and down noses, which the owners could
not reach to scratch. On the outer rim the piles remained unmelted.
Hurstwood, who could not get in the centre, stood with head lowered to
the weather and bent his form.

A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill of
possibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition. At
last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears. Footsteps
shuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called: "Slow up there,
now," and then the door opened. It was push and jam for a minute, with
grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward,
like logs floating, and disappeared. There were wet hats and wet
shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in between bleak
walls. It was just six o'clock and there was supper in every hurrying
pedestrian's face. And yet no supper was provided here--nothing but
beds.

Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps to
his allotted room. It was a dingy affair--wooden, dusty, hard. A small
gas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner.

"Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door.

Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first with
his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His vest he
arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid softly upon
the table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down.

It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned the gas
out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After a few
moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated, he turned
the gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood there, hidden
wholly in that kindness which is night, while the uprising fumes filled
the room. When the odour reached his nostrils, he quit his attitude and
fumbled for the bed. "What's the use?" he said, weakly, as he stretched
himself to rest.

And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed life's
object, or, at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever attain of
their original desires. She could look about on her gowns and carriage,
her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as the world takes
it--those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of her success. For
these she had once craved. Applause there was, and publicity--once far
off, essential things, but now grown trivial and indifferent.
Beauty also--her type of loveliness--and yet she was lonely. In her
rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged--singing and dreaming.

Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional
nature--the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come
the men of action--generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets and
dreamers--artists all.

As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy,
voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal.

Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the
ideal. For him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe.
Ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of its
distant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in travelling. So
watched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing.

And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this. Chicago
dawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she had ever
known, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone, clung to it.
In fine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to be contented.
Hence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York; Drouet, Hurstwood;
the world of fashion and the world of stage--these were but incidents.
Not them, but that which they represented, she longed for. Time proved
the representation false.

Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here was Carrie,
in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional; responding with
desire to everything most lovely in life, yet finding herself turned as
by a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured, if you will, by everything lovely,
but draw not nigh unless by righteousness." Convention to say: "You
shall not better your situation save by honest labour." If honest labour
be unremunerative and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road
which never reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the
drag to follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking
rather the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast
the first stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, more
often directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness more often
allures the feeling mind unused to reason.

Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. As when
Drouet took her, she had thought: "Now I am lifted into that which is
best"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the better way: "Now am
I happy." But since the world goes its way past all who will not partake
of its folly, she now found herself alone. Her purse was open to him
whose need was greatest. In her walks on Broadway, she no longer thought
of the elegance of the creatures who passed her. Had they more of that
peace and beauty which glimmered afar off, then were they to be envied.

Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood's death
she was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out from the pier at
Twenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, with many others, his
nameless body to the Potter's Field.

Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in their
relation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable alone by
the nature of her longings. Time was when both represented for her
all that was most potent in earthly success. They were the personal
representatives of a state most blessed to attain--the titled
ambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. It is
but natural that when the world which they represented no longer allured
her, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood returned
in his original beauty and glory, he could not now have allured her.
She had learned that in his world, as in her own present state, was not
happiness.

Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by which
one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of beauty.
Though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that halcyon day
when she would be led forth among dreams become real. Ames had pointed
out a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if accomplished, would
lie others for her. It was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance of
delight which tints the distant hilltops of the world.

Oh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart! Onward
onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows. Whether it
be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet landscape, or the
glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of soul in some passing
eye, the heart knows and makes answer, following. It is when the feet
weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise.
Know, then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content. In your
rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your
rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may
never feel.

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

completion: Things are still going very badly for Hurstwood , and he's living on the streets and eating at soup kitchens run by charities. He begs for money, but most people shy away from him or berate him, telling him "you're no good." Police shoo him away. Hurstwood considers using the money he's begged for to rent a small room in the boarding house and turn on the gas to kill himself, but he decides not to. He sees Carrie on a huge poster and decides to go to the theater to ask her for money. He tries to get into the theater, but a man there kicks him out before he can get to Carrie, so he goes back out on the street. It looks like a blizzard is about to hit. We shift to Carrie, in her "comfortable chambers at the Waldorf." How's that for contrast? She's reading a book Ames recommended, Pere Goriot; she's very impressed. Carrie goes over to the window--the snow is really coming down out there--and Lola says she hopes that there'll be enough snow for a sleigh ride. Carrie chastises her for being so trivial and not bothering to feel "sorry for the people who haven't anything to-night." We then catch up with Drouet, who's just arrived at a nice hotel. He's up to his old tricks, trying to pick up women. Then we're suddenly in a train car with Mrs. Hurstwood and daughter Jessica. Wow--this is beginning to feel like that part after the end of a movie when we find out what happened to all the minor characters as the credits roll. Mrs. Hurstwood and Jessica are accompanied by Jessica's new husband. They're starting out on their way to Rome. And then we circle back to Hurstwood, who's standing in a crowd of men in the Bowery outside a building in front of a closed door in the freezing cold. The door opens and we see that the place is a boarding house. Hurstwood goes in and pays for a room... When he gets to the room, he puts his stuff down. Then he turns on the gas and lies down. We shift to Carrie. She's still rich, famous, and lonely. Really lonely. Her favorite thing to do lately is to sit in a rocking chair and spend her time "singing and dreaming." Even Drouet has given up on trying to hang out with her. Hurstwood's suicide attempt was successful, and we're told " was not even aware." As the book ends, we leave Carrie in her rocking chair by the window.


prompt:
Chapter: When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total
outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin
satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse,
containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in Van
Buren Street, and four dollars in money. It was in August, 1889. She
was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of
ignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret at parting characterised
her thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages now being given up. A
gush of tears at her mother's farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when
the cars clacked by the flour mill where her father worked by the day,
a pathetic sigh as the familiar green environs of the village passed in
review, and the threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home
were irretrievably broken.

To be sure there was always the next station, where one might descend
and return. There was the great city, bound more closely by these very
trains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very far away,
even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours--a few hundred
miles? She looked at the little slip bearing her sister's address and
wondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now passing in swift
review, until her swifter thoughts replaced its impression with vague
conjectures of what Chicago might be.

When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things.
Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly
assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an
intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility.
The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and
more human tempter. There are large forces which allure with all the
soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam
of a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a
wooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and
natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare
of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the
astonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to
whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things
breathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, their
beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the
simpler human perceptions.

Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed
by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of
observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but not
strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm with the
fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formative
period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eye
alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of the
middle American class--two generations removed from the emigrant. Books
were beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book. In the intuitive
graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her head gracefully.
Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet, though small, were set
flatly. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand
the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in material things.
A half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoitre
the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off
supremacy, which should make it prey and subject--the proper penitent,
grovelling at a woman's slipper.

"That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little resorts
in Wisconsin."

"Is it?" she answered nervously.

The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had been
conscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass of hair.
He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a certain
interest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and a certain
sense of what was conventional under the circumstances, called her to
forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of
the individual, born of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. She
answered.

He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and
proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.

"Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are swell.
You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?"

"Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City. I
have never been through here, though."

"And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed.

All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side of
her eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey fedora
hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts of
self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain.

"I didn't say that," she said.

"Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of
mistake, "I thought you did."

Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing house--a
class which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day
"drummers." He came within the meaning of a still newer term, which had
sprung into general use among Americans in 1880, and which concisely
expressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are calculated to
elicit the admiration of susceptible young women--a "masher." His suit
was of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time,
but since become familiar as a business suit. The low crotch of the vest
revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. From his coat
sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened
with large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates known
as "cat's-eyes." His fingers bore several rings--one, the ever-enduring
heavy seal--and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from
which was suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole
suit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan
shoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the order
of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend
him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first
glance.

Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put down
some of the most striking characteristics of his most successful manner
and method. Good clothes, of course, were the first essential, the
things without which he was nothing. A strong physical nature, actuated
by a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. A mind free of any
consideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not
by greed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. His method was
always simple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by
an intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet with a young
woman once and he would approach her with an air of kindly familiarity,
not unmixed with pleading, which would result in most cases in a
tolerant acceptance. If she showed any tendency to coquetry he would be
apt to straighten her tie, or if she "took up" with him at all, to call
her by her first name. If he visited a department store it was to lounge
familiarly over the counter and ask some leading questions. In more
exclusive circles, on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower.
If some seemingly vulnerable object appeared he was all attention--to
pass the compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car,
carrying her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the
hope of being able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, a
footstool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things which he
could do. If, when she reached her destination he did not alight and
attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation, he
had signally failed.

A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No
matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. There
is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel which
somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those
who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on the way
downward he will get no glance from her. There is another line at
which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line the
individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious
of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape
trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of her
shoes.

"Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your town.
Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."

"Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their
show windows had cost her.

At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few
minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing,
his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.

"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you
relatives?"

"I am going to visit my sister," she explained.

"You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard. They
are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York--great. So
much to see--theatres, crowds, fine houses--oh, you'll like that."

There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her
insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected
her. She realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet
there was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth.
There was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual
with his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of some
popular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet
attention of this sort had its weight.

"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at one
turn of the now easy conversation.

"I don't know," said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the possibility
of her not securing employment rising in her mind.

"Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes.

There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He
recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and
beauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the
one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was
simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the many
little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. Some
things she did appeared bold. A clever companion--had she ever had
one--would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily.

"Why do you ask?" she said.

"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock at
our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round."

"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether I can.
I shall be living with my sister, and----"

"Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and a
little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your address
there?"

She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.

He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was
filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks.
It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one
attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the
world, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the
shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did
things, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the
centre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.

He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett, Caryoe
& Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.

"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his
name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father's
side."

She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter
from a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for," he
went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake." There
was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected
with such a place, and he made her feel that way.

"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.

She looked at his hand.

"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West Van
Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."

He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be at
home if I come around Monday night?" he said.

"I think so," she answered.

How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we
mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible
feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying little phrases,
drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how
inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to be
sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how his
luring succeeded. She could not realise that she was drifting, until he
secured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded something--he,
that he had gained a victory. Already they felt that they were somehow
associated. Already he took control in directing the conversation. His
words were easy. Her manner was relaxed.

They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains
flashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they could
see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward the great
city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some big smokestacks
towering high in the air.

Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the open
fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army of
homes.

To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled,
the approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing.
Particularly if it be evening--that mystic period between the glare and
gloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition
to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for the
weary! What old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the
soul of the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free. I shall be in the
ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lighted
chamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the halls, the parties,
the ways of rest and the paths of song--these are mine in the night."
Though all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs
abroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they may not
always express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.

Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her
wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the
city and pointed out its marvels.

"This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the Chicago River,"
and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the huge masted
wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With a
puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. "Chicago is getting
to be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder. You'll find lots to see
here."

She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of
terror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a
great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but
feel a little choked for breath--a little sick as her heart beat so
fast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that
Columbia City was only a little way off.

"Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door. They
were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang
of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her hand
firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten his
trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.

"I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Let me carry
your grip."

"Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather you wouldn't be
with me when I meet my sister."

"All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in case she
isn't here, and take you out there safely."

"You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such attention in
her strange situation.

"Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They were
under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginning
to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train moving at a
snail's pace. The people in the car were all up and crowding about the
door.

"Well, here we are," said Drouet, leading the way to the door.
"Good-bye, till I see you Monday."

"Good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand.

"Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister."

She smiled into his eyes.

They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A lean-faced,
rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform and hurried
forward.

"Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was embrace of welcome.

Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid all
the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the
hand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement. Her sister
carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil.

"Why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, and
mother?"

Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the gate
leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He was
looking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sister
he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only Carrie saw it.
She felt something lost to her when he moved away. When he disappeared
she felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she was much alone, a
lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.

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

completion: Caroline Meeber, an eighteen-year-old innocent, boards the train for her first trip to Chicago from her small home town in Wisconsin. Carrying all her worldly belongings, an imitation alligator satchel, a yellow purse, and four dollars in cash, she looks forward to Chicago with mixed timidity and hope, ignorance and youthful expectancy. As the train rushes out of town, all the bonds which tie her to childhood are irrevocably broken. Carrie is ignorant of the traps and disasters that lie in wait for her in the big city. It is certain that without someone to guide and counsel her she will fall prey to the cosmopolitan morality. Aboard the train her prettiness and naivete attract the attention of a bold and dapper traveling salesman named Charles Drouet. Although her maidenly reserve and sense of propriety forestall immediate familiarity with Drouet, she is gradually won over by the drummer's slangy charm. Because of the seeming shabbiness of her dress and her worn shoes, Carrie feels reticent and socially inferior to Drouet in his dashing attire. Soon, however, she becomes fascinated with Drouet's elegant appearance. In the lengthy conversation which ensues, Drouet flatters Carrie and finally obtains her Chicago address, making a tentative date to meet her again the following week. As the train approaches the great city, Carrie sees the many telegraph poles set out in the still undeveloped prairie and solitary houses, "lone outposts of the approaching army of homes." Carrie is nearly transfixed by the sight of the city as they enter. When the train stops, she experiences a moment of terror and feels choked for breath so far away from Columbia City, her old home. Once they are off the train, Drouet gallantly waits in the background for Carrie's sister Minnie to find her, and when she does, he departs with a smile that only Carrie sees. When Drouet disappears Carrie feels his absence greatly; she is "a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea."