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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.

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

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

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

"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.

"Why?" she questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is he?" asked Carrie doubtfully.

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

"What's that?" said Carrie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drouet had not thought of that.

"So we ought," he observed readily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drouet smiled.

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

Drouet laughed loud.

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

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

"On Wednesday," he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're so kind," observed Carrie.

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

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

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

"He seems to be," said Carrie.

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

completion: It seems as though Carrie has moved into Drouet's three-bedroom apartment--her trunk and clothing are there, and we're told she's been hanging out there a lot and cooking for him. Plus, she's plagued by a guilty conscience over what she's done... though what she's done isn't spelled out. Drouet tells Carrie about how he invited Hurstwood over, and Carrie feels a little worried about what this guy will think of their living situation. Drouet tries to reassure her by saying, "He doesn't know anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now." Wait--what? Did we miss the wedding? No, no we didn't. It turns out Drouet is only pretending that they're married, but he has managed to bring up a sore subject because Carrie immediately asks why it is they haven't gotten married yet . He gives her some baloney excuse about needing to wrap up a property deal before he can tie the knot. But lest you think Carrie is head over heels for Drouet, think again. She's actually getting a little bored with the guy and wants to get married mostly for the sake of appearances . Hurstwood arrives... and move over, Drouet. Now here's a guy Carrie could really fall for... and she starts to do just that from the moment he walks in. Instead of feeling threatened, Drouet senses Hurstwood's approval of Carrie and is pleased that he's managed to bag a babe that's so attractive to a man of Hurstwood's caliber. Drouet and Hurstwood teach Carrie to play euchre. There's some mild flirtation going on between Hurstwood and Carrie, but Drouet still seems cool with the situation. Before Hurstwood leaves, he invites them both to the theater. He also insists that the next time Drouet is away on business, he's just got to let Hurstwood show Carrie around. Drouet agrees without batting an eye. Carrie and Drouet concur: Hurstwood is just the best.


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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here," she answered.

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

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

Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly," said his companion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood.

"Only a few days."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure," he returned, pleasantly.

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

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

Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.

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

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

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

"I never did," she returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: The narrator introduces us to some of the other occupants of the apartment building where Carrie and Drouet live: Mr. Frank Hale, the manager of a theater and his wife, Mrs. Hale, whom Carrie sometimes hangs out with. The Hales aren't rich, but Mrs. Hale sure wishes they were. The railroad treasurer's wife and her well-dressed, piano-playing daughter live across the hall. One night, Carrie sits looking out her window and listens to the daughter play the piano; she starts feeling depressed. Drouet comes home and discovers Carrie sitting there crying. She obviously must be upset because she's been missing him, he thinks. So, completely misreading the situation, he suggests they waltz. Carrie's not feeling it. Then we hop back to that night at the end of the previous chapter, though instead of being in Carrie and Drouet's apartment, we're with Hurstwood in the cab. He's thinking about how great Carrie is and decides to send her flowers. Fast forward a few weeks: Drouet returns from a business trip, and on his way back to the apartment he runs into a "lady acquaintance." He wastes no time inviting her to dinner--a dinner that lasts two and a half hours. And who just happens to be at the very same restaurant? Yup--Hurstwood, whose first thought is to feel sorry for Carrie. Drouet can tell that Hurstwood pretends not to see him and he's already trying to concoct some explanation. Soon after that night, Drouet shows up at Hurstwood's office. Hurstwood tells him right off the bat that he saw him at dinner that night, but Drouet plays it off by explaining that the lady was an old acquaintance who pressured him into dining together. Hurstwood invites Drouet and Carrie to dinner. For the first time, Hurstwood begins to see Drouet as his competition, but he feels more than up to the challenge. A few days later, Drouet finds Carrie primping in front of the mirror and accuses her of getting vain. Nevertheless, he tells her to get dressed and he'll take her to a show. But Carrie's already got plans with Mrs. Hale to go a fair and she's not about to cancel them, despite Drouet's protestations. However, just then a letter arrives from Hurstwood inviting them to the theater that evening. Carrie suddenly has no qualms about ditching Mrs. Hale. Drouet and Carrie meet Hurstwood in the theater lobby, and Carrie and Hurstwood flirt up a storm before the play starts. She is totally crushing on him and thinks about how Drouet totally pales in comparison.


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

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

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

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

The next morning at breakfast his son said:

"I saw you, Governor, last night."

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

"Yes," said young George.

"Who with?"

"Miss Carmichael."

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

"How was the play?" she inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They're very fine," he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," she answered, weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she answered.

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

He retained a hold on her hand.

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

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

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

"All right," he said, brightening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: Breakfast at the Hurstwood household begins with trouble: George Jr. tells Hurstwood that he saw him at the theater last night. Mrs. Hurstwood grills him about the specifics, wanting to know what he saw and who he saw it with. Hurstwood explains that he went with Drouet and his wife, trying to make it seem like it was some business outing. Mrs. Hurstwood doesn't press him further, but she isn't buying it one bit. She changes the subject and informs him that she expects him to accompany her that afternoon as she entertains some acquaintances of theirs. Hurstwood isn't happy because these people are total bores and he's got a ton of work to do. Apparently Mrs. H does the same thing again soon after , eventually inspiring Hurstwood to draw a line and tell her he's too busy. She throws back in his face that he wasn't too busy for theater dates with Drouet and Carrie. Burn. We jump to Carrie and Mrs. Hale riding through the city for the sole purpose of ogling other people's fancy houses. This is Mrs. Hale's favorite pastime. As they ride along, Carrie fantasizes about perfect people living their perfect lives inside the perfect houses. Carrie returns to her apartment and has a newfound appreciation for just how meager the place is in comparison to all those mansions. She climbs into the old rocking chair and mopes. Hurstwood drops by, and Carrie thinks that he must not be aware that Drouet is out of town . Okay, it turns out he actually didn't know, though he's not too broken up about Drouet's absence. Carrie and Hurstwood hang out and he tells her about all the cool places he's been in his life. She's even more smitten--this guy really gets her in a way Drouet never has, she thinks. Hurstwood says that he can tell that Carrie isn't happy with her living situation. How in the world did he know? Their eyes meet and he makes a bold move by touching her hand. She resists, but doesn't run or kick him out "as she might have done." He stays a bit longer and they talk. After he leaves, she feels guilty. Hurstwood, however, is thrilled because it's obvious to him that Carrie is really into him. He whistles all the way home.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I never tried," said Carrie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it that way?" she mused.

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

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

Her eyes fell consciously.

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

She made no answer, but he felt his victory.

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

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

For answer, her lips replied.

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

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

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

completion: Hurstwood can't stop thinking about Carrie. This girl is way too good for Drouet, in his opinion, and he wants to see her again as soon as possible. But Carrie feels conflicted: she's crazy about Hurstwood but she does feel some loyalty to Drouet. We learn that because Hurstwood has been such a model employee in the past, he feels entitled to take a few hours for himself here and there during the workday, so he heads off to see Carrie at her apartment. Carrie's on her way out to take a walk, when the maid lets her know that Hurstwood has just shown up. They go for a walk together along Washington Boulevard, a ritzy part of town. Hurstwood is nervous that he'll see someone he knows so he ducks into a livery stable to get a horse so they can go for a ride and be less conspicuous. Hurstwood lets Carrie take the reins. Nervous tension. Finally he spills his feelings, telling her how happy he's been since they've started hanging out. Inwardly she's thrilled, but tries to play it cool. And then he drops the L-word. That's right--he's madly in love with her. But she doesn't say much in return. Ouch. So he goes on talking, telling her about what a sad life he has surrounded by people he can't stand and how if he just had her everything would be okay. She relates to his sense of loneliness. He seems to be throwing himself a pity party to appeal to her sympathy, which seems pretty pathetic... except that it works. This time, when he makes a move by putting his arm around her, she doesn't back away. He tells her to say that she loves him. The cat's still got her tongue, but when he boldly goes in for the kiss: "her lips replied."


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When will I see you again?"

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

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

She shook her head.

"Not so soon," she answered.

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

Carrie assented.

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

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

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

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

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

Hurstwood arose.

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

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

"Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.

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

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

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

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

"I will," said Drouet, smilingly.

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

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

They separated in the most cordial manner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope you do," said Carrie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.

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

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

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

completion: Carrie returns from her rendezvous with Hurstwood just as Mrs. Hale takes a peek out her window. A-ha--Drouet had better keep an eye on her, she thinks... and she's not the only one with suspicions. The maid who let Hurstwood in has figured out what's going on . Carrie is so enamored of Hurstwood that she's now barely giving a second thought to Drouet. Hurstwood is similarly on Cloud Nine, hoping he can have his cake and eat it too, as he keeps up both his romance with Carrie and his home life. Carrie and Hurstwood have a dinner date. Things don't get hot and heavy because Carrie is still pretending to be married to Drouet and Hurstwood is pretending to believe that she's married to Drouet. Hurstwood asks her to go to the fair with him the following Tuesday but she declines, telling him it's too soon. However, they agree that they'll write to each other . Drouet returns from his business trip and drops in to see Hurstwood at his office. They chitchat and Hurstwood mentions that he checked in on Carrie while Drouet was away. Hurstwood invites them both to go to a show. Drouet returns to the apartment and kisses Carrie, who doesn't quite kiss back. So cold. Drouet boasts about what a great job he did on his trip and how successful he's been as a salesman the past quarter and how he thinks he'll get a raise soon... and then they can get married. Yeah, right, like that's ever going to happen, she tells him. He tries to reassure her, but it doesn't work. She doesn't think he's serious about marrying her, and Hurstwood, in contrast, seems to be dying to get her to the altar, she thinks. Drouet mentions that he saw Hurstwood and that he's invited them to go to the theater. He also remarks that Hurstwood said that he'd stopped by while he was gone. Carrie almost blows her cover when she says that yes, he came by Sunday. Drouet says that's funny because he'd told him that he called a week ago. Oops. Carrie nervously answers yes to Drouet's next question: "so he called twice?" But the naive Drouet shrugs it off, figuring that he'd misunderstood Hurstwood. Carrie soon gets a letter from Hurstwood who tells her they need to get their story straight about how many times they actually hung out while Drouet was away. He suggests they meet up before the theater outing with Drouet. She writes back that Drouet doesn't seem suspicious, but that she feels guilty. When they meet, Hurstwood tries to allay her conscience by telling her that as soon as Drouet's gone, he'll fix everything. She takes this to mean that he's about to pop the question, of course. Hurstwood and Carrie agree not to act flirtatious in front of Drouet anymore. The curtain rises at the theater and Drouet, Hurstwood, and Carrie watch "The Covenant" . And what a coincidence: there's a scene in the play in which a woman is having an affair. After the play, Drouet remarks that he has no pity for the "chump" husband, who deserved to be cheated on for not being attentive enough to his wife. Isn't it ironic? Don't you think? On their way out of the theater, a homeless man approaches the trio and asks for change. Drouet doesn't hesitate to give him a dime, but Hurstwood and Carrie are so busy making googly eyes at each other that they pay no attention to the man.