prompt:
Chapter: When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His blood was
warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who had
stirred him so profoundly the night before.

"Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and
an elation which was tragic in itself.

"Yes," said Carrie.

They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood
drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt
was like music to him.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the night
before.

"Are you?"

He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.

"It was wonderful."

Carrie laughed ecstatically.

"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he added.

He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening
before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.

Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her.
Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his drawing
toward her in every sound of his voice.

"Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a moment or
two. "They were beautiful."

"Glad you liked them," he answered, simply.

He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being
delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was
ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and
expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and
feeling for a way.

"You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tune
modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.

"Yes," said Carrie, easily.

He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her
with his eye.

She felt the flood of feeling.

"How about me?" he asked.

This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the flood-gates
were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. "I don't know," she
answered.

He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it
go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. He
searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.

"Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.

"I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and finding
nothing at which to catch.

As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a
man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,
sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed
of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen eyes,
his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before her a
man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a
feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the glow
of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from
feeling what he felt.

And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did
he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or what?
Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened, and her eyes
were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Drouet
had told him they were not married. There was never anything at all
convincing about what Drouet said.

And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of bitterness
was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere. His
passion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should
she do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing
affectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless
sea of speculation.

"Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange for you
whatever--"

"Oh, don't," said Carrie.

"Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering
why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by
a blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of
marriage.

He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in.
He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He
went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely
enlisted in his plan.

"Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent
feeling. "You know I can't do without you--you know it--it can't go on
this way--can it?"

"I know," said Carrie.

"I wouldn't ask if I--I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it. Look
at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to stay away
from me, do you?"

She shook her head as if in deep thought. "Then why not settle the whole
thing, once and for all?"

"I don't know," said Carrie.

"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be
serious."

"I am," said Carrie, softly.

"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love you.
Look at last night."

His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and
body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a
subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man's nature
was distilling itself.

Carrie made no answer.

"How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "You
love me, don't you?"

He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For
the moment all doubts were cleared away.

"Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly.

"Well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?"

Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.

"I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too soon, come
Saturday."

"When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her
difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's wife.

The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult
than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to
his mind.

"Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his
present delight with this miserable problem.

"Saturday?" asked Carrie.

He nodded his head.

"Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go."

The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so
difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had
gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. He
did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much
loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he
would not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon
him. He would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to
disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be
the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty of
statement, all abandonment of truth.

Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his
shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. "Well," she said, "I'll try and
get ready then."

Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows
of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more
lovely.

"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talk over
the plans."

He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the
result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though
there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began to
realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world.

"To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully
to his brave demeanour.

"Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.

There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing
herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome
adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they
would be happy.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not hungry," she answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, about two or three."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

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

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

"Yes, it is too bad."

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

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

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

"Yes. You didn't get around."

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

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

"Were there many there?"

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

"Quite a social gathering."

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

Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know," she snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She made no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gazed at him--a pythoness in humour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, nothing--nothing much."

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

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

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

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

"Sure you did?" he asked.

"Yes, what makes you ask?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drouet paused for a moment and thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought I told you," he added.

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

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

"I thought I did," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The drummer stared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did I ask you to?" she returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrie walked over to the door.

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

"Let me out," she said.

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

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

Carrie merely pulled at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrie made no answer.

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

Still he got nothing for his words.

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

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

"Will you do that?" he asked.

Still no answer.

"Will you?" he repeated.

She only looked vaguely into the street.

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you?" he urged.

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

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

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

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

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

He was wondering what she was intending.

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

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

She made no answer to this.

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

Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir," said the boy.

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

"Yes, sir"

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

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

"All right, now. Hurry right back."

"Any answer?"

"I guess not."

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

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

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

"Well?" said Hurstwood.

"I gave it to her."

"My wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any answer?"

"She said it was high time."

Hurstwood scowled fiercely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

"Very truly yours, etc."

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

Again he shook his head.

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

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

completion: When Hurstwood meets Carrie, in Chapter Twenty-One, he wants to talk about his feelings for her but finds he is fishing for words. She is depicted as being in a 'hopeless quandary' when he asks her to leave Drouet. She is almost deluded into thinking she has a 'lively passion' for Hurstwood and is attracted by his appearance, but says she does not know if she can come away with him. She is not agreeable to change and feels safer with Drouet. However, she does like Hurstwood and is keen to secure her rights 'as a good woman'  and he says they can marry anytime. He agrees to do so on Saturday when she asks and his reason is seen to be overcome by passion. Chapter Twenty-Two moves to Mrs Hurstwood and her increasing jealousy. This is deepened when Dr Beale asks her why she did not acknowledge him when she was travelling with Hurstwood. She knows he did not see her travelling with him and pretends it was Jessica instead, although she knows it could not have been, and refrains from mentioning it to Hurstwood until she has more proof that he has been unfaithful. Her suspicions are raised all the more when she is at the races and one of the Elks mentions her absence from the play . He also says it was a shame she could not make it and is sorry to hear she has been ill. On further enquiry, she discovers other men took their wives. When Hurstwood comes home that night, she is quietly furious with him. She demands money for a holiday and he is amazed at her coldness. He denies driving out with another woman, but she does not believe him. She informs him she will talk to a lawyer if he  will not speak to her. In Chapter Twenty-Three, Carrie is doubtful about promising to marry Hurstwood as she is comfortably situated and frightened that change may result in her losing what she has gained. She is not so certain of her decision when she is away from him. When Drouet returns home, he questions her as to whether Hurstwood came over as frequently as the chambermaid claimed. He then warns her to have nothing to do with him as he is a married man. This shocks Carrie and her reaction tells Drouet that she has been seeing him, even though she denied it initially. She proceeds to tell Drouet off for introducing her to Hurstwood and accuses him of making a toy of her. Despite her transference of anger, Drouet is sympathetic when she attempts to leave with nothing as he knows she has nowhere to go. He says she may stay in the rooms for a month and he will leave. She independently decides not to see Hurstwood anymore and thinks of how Drouet has been kind. However, when she continues to blame Drouet , Drouet leaves the flat in jealous anger as he sees she genuinely cared for Hurstwood. Chapter Twenty-Four returns to Hurstwood, and how he is staying downtown after the argument with his wife. Unbeknownst to him, she has decided to demand regular payments from him and her word will be law in the future. She is also determined to hire a lawyer and a private detective. Hurstwood remembers that he has property in her name and he will lose his manager's position if she 'raises a row'. To make matters worse , Carrie is not in the park as they arranged and there is no letter for him either. He receives a letter from his wife, though, in which she demands money and he refuses to send any. A second note from his wife informs him if he does not pay her the amount she requires she will let his bosses know about his affair. He takes a cab to his home, but cannot get in as he has been bolted out. He returns to his office in Chapter Twenty Five and considers his predicament. He finally decides to consider sending his wife some money. By Monday, he still has not heard from Carrie , but receives a letter from his wife's solicitor which asks to see him immediately. On Wednesday, he receives another solicitor's letter saying that if he does not come to see them and 'compromise' by Thursday at 1 pm, they will file for divorce and alimony. His response is to put the letters together and walk around the block. His blood is boiling at the thought of being forced to make such decisions and to be asked to make a compromise.