prompt:
Chapter: To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is
invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces
and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind,
which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood
of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden
from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite
dramatic expression--"I am going away."

As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she
had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she
was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot
Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and
cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting
world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated
at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much.
Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows? Perhaps
she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring.
She was saved in that she was hopeful.

The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they
stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at
the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood had
been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had
stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it
called anew by a busman.

"We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.

At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk
came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down. With the
latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name he had seen
out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough. With
an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was the largest
concession to necessity he felt like making. His initials he could not
spare.

When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured
her a lovely chamber.

"You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you get
ready."

Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at
himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk, no
change of linen, not even a hair-brush.

"I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a hair-brush.
Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go for a shave and
come back and get you, and then we'll go out and look for some clothes
for you."

He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.

"All right," said Carrie.

She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for
the boy, who soon knocked.

"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding out his
hands, but she did not move to take them.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.

"Don't you care for me at all?"

She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.

"Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one of
her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said you did."

"What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.

"I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."

"You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking cleanly
home.

"Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now. Won't
you try and care for me a little?"

He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.

She shook her head negatively.

"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from to-day on."

Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he slipped
his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held her quite
close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the all compelling desire.
His affection took an ardent form.

"Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.

"Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?"

Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment before she
had been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection
for him. He was so handsome, so daring!

Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose
feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was,
began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose bosom she
was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and she
was alone. If she did not turn to him--accept of his love--where else
might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong
feeling.

She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What magnetism
there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were for the
moment all forgotten.

He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
opposition was useless.

"Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.

"This very day," he said, with all delight.

Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her
regretfully.

"You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."

Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.

Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. For the
moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie seemed
to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life seemed
worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and
attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm showed
a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold.

He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was
fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. Instantly
his heart sank. "Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are
you doing down here?"

Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the
stock-broker.

"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind
working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did
not know--he had not read the papers.

"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
genially. "Stopping here?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the
register.

"Going to be in town long?"

"No, only a day or so."

"Is that so? Had your breakfast?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave."

"Won't you come have a drink?"

"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later. Are
you stopping here?"

"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added: "How are
things out in Chicago?"

"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.

"Wife with you?"

"No."

"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for
breakfast. Come in when you're through."

"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a
trial to him. It seemed to add complications with very word. This man
called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left.
Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort--all these were in his greeting
and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer
with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All
at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have
accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the
possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's eyes, a
safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. He
decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.

Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the
ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous
place.

Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was
of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with
a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician's.
This individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he
surveyed the ex-manager keenly.

Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.
Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that he was being
watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind
was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people
do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not
understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie
should find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be
out of it.

Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
refreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone
she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not
blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He
could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about her
forbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own experiences
and reflections below stairs.

"You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.

"Yes," she answered.

"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal to me
very much."

"All right," said Carrie.

They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was
standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that
he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the fellow's eye was
galling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning the
city. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they
entered.

"What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely
because it was not like Chicago.

"It Isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like it?"

"No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great
Western city.

"Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.

"What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this
town.

"Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There's some
pretty scenery about here."

Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her
situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.

"We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really glad
to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon as
breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like that.
It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago."

He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these
detectives would do--what move his employers at Chicago would make--then
he would slip away--down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew
enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of
mystification were infinite.

The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became.
He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm
would probably employ detectives to watch him--Pinkerton men or agents
of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave
Canada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a
state!

Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the
morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed
had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went
to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious faces were
about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the
main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked
them over. Very little was given to his crime, but it was there,
several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders,
accidents, marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he
could undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of
safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. There
could have been an easier way out if he had only known.

He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them
out of the hands of Carrie.

"Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in looking
out of the window.

"Oh, all right," she answered.

He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a
knock came at their door.

"Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.

Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom he
had so thoroughly suspected.

"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of
affected shrewdness and assurance.

"Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that some
of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as these were
of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped out and closed
the door.

"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
confidentially.

"I can guess," said Hurstwood softly.

"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?"

"That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly.

"You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly.

"Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside. You'll
have to excuse me." "Well, now, there's no use of your talking that
way," said the man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make
a lot of trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in
this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't
know you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable."

"What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.

"Whether you're going to send back that money or not."

Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.

"There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last. "There's
no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know just what you
can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of trouble if you want
to. I know that all right, but it won't help you to get the money. Now,
I've made up my mind what to do. I've already written Fitzgerald and
Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait until you hear more from
them."

All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door,
down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near the
end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.

"You won't give it up?" said the man.

The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his brain.
Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't want the
money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy, maybe it would be
all right again.

"See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I
respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people who
know."

"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.

"I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready there'll be
nothing to stop me for."

He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an
intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.

"Who was it?" asked Carrie.

"A friend of mine from Chicago."

The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did
after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a deep
gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was the fact
that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the nature of that
social injustice which sees but one side--often but a single point in
a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the
money. How and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with. All the
complications which led up to it were unknown. He was accused without
being understood.

Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the
money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then
send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would
ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about
writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.

For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He
wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He finally narrowed it
down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining friends,
had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the money
out, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much. He was
sorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he could by
sending the money back--the major portion of it. The remainder he would
pay up as soon as he could. Was there any possibility of his being
restored? This he only hinted at.

The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very
construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful
thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him. He
forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and that
if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the jagged line
of separation and reunion would always show. He was always forgetting
something--his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present situation, or
something--and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless, he sent the
letter, waiting a reply before sending the money.

Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what
joy out of it he could.

Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open
windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in the
air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the
one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him
wholly--only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which
he had seen her in the little park in Chicago--how happy he would be!
It would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He would
not care.

"Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are you
going to stay with me from now on?"

She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of
the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen
and strong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help
smiling.

"Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me worry
any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a nice flat.
I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't you be mine?"

Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but
the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of
affection. She felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow born of what had only
recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt for him.
She would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings,
but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke
down the barriers between them.

"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, nodding her head.

He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks.

"You must marry me, though," she said. "I'll get a license to-day," he
answered.

"How?" she asked.

"Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a new
life. From now on I'm Murdock."

"Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.

"Why not?" he said.

"I don't like it."

"Well, what shall I take?" he asked.

"Oh, anything, only don't take that."

He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:

"How would Wheeler do?"

"That's all right," said Carrie.

"Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this afternoon."

They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found
convenient.

At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He
was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had come
about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not trouble
to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for his
returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had not
quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it over
and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on.

The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted
the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom.
He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send,
keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence,
explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day,
took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He was
slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to make
it, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he might be
seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was
scarcely possible. He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he
had it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to be observing him,
but he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest at the first station
across the border or at the depot in New York there should be waiting
for him an officer of the law.

Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into
the latter city in the morning. The round green hills sentinelling the
broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty
as the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the
Hudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out,
filling her mind with the wonder of it.

As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank of
the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the
fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with
Chicago, she expected long lines of cars--a great highway of tracks--and
noted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more
in the East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign of the
great sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and
then the train plunged into the tunnel.

"Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of
darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and gathered up
his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension. With Carrie
he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one approached him, but
he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance.
So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind,
wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the depot proper
the strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at once he was on
the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved a great breath
and turned, remembering Carrie.

"I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.

"I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he
answered.

Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.

"How large is New York?" she asked.

"Oh a million or more," said Hurstwood.

He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.

For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little
expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.

He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat.
Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.

"We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.

Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more important
hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew. He stood up
and spoke to the driver.

"Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less frequented by
those whom he knew. Then he sat down.

"Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the tall
five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.

"Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. "There are
no lawns in New York. All these are houses."

"Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a few
opinions of her own.

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

completion: Still rolling along, Carrie gazes out the train's window. Forgetting all about having essentially been kidnapped by Hurstwood, she starts getting excited about the journey. The next morning, they arrive in Montreal and go straight to a fancy hotel. Hurstwood signs in with a fake last name and his real initials . Once inside their room, Hurstwood begs Carrie to marry him. She has mixed feelings--on the one hand, he's still a creep for deceiving her; but on the other hand, she's pretty much got nobody else. They end up kissing and then she asks him if he'll marry her. He replies that he'll do it today. He tells her to get ready--he'll be back in less than an hour. Hurstwood goes to the lobby in search of a barbershop, feeling like everything's just hunky-dory now. Until he hears a familiar voice. Oh, no--it's one of his business friends, Kenny. He's surprised to see Hurstwood, who explains that he's there attending to "a little private matter." Kenny invites him for a drink later and he says okay. Seeing Kenny reminds Hurstwood of his crime, and he worries about whether the newspapers have broken the story yet. Hurstwood decides to go back up and get Carrie to take her to have breakfast at another hotel. But on his way, he notices some dude watching him. It's got to be a detective, he thinks. Let the paranoia begin. Carrie's looking all fresh and ready to go by the time Hurstwood gets back up to the room. She's not exactly overflowing with love though, which makes him feel worse. Hurstwood and Carrie leave the hotel, and on their way to breakfast Hurstwood sees that same dude who he thinks is a detective. At the restaurant, Carrie tells Hurstwood that she's not digging Montreal--the place seems pretty dead. He tells her they don't have to stay long and tries to cheer her up with the promise of a shopping trip that afternoon. He tells her they'll be heading to New York soon. They go back to the hotel and Hurstwood figures he better try to find a paper to see if he's front-page news yet. He leaves Carrie in the room and goes to get a paper. The story is there, but it's not featured prominently. He feels very regretful about what he's done. He goes back upstairs to get Carrie and is about to talk to her when there's a knock at the door. It's the detective dude. Uh-oh--Hurstwood steps into the hall. Evidently Hurstwood wasn't just being paranoid: this guy really is a detective. But Hurstwood is cool as a cucumber. The detective asks him if he plans to keep the stolen money, and Hurstwood tells him "I know just what you can do and what you can't" and says that he's already written to his bosses to settle the situation. Hurstwood goes back into the room. Carrie asks who the guy was and Hurstwood tells her it was some buddy of his from Chicago. He thinks about his plan to write to his employers to explain what happened and then send the money back. Not such a bad idea, he concludes. He hopes they'll forgive him and take him back. He writes the letter and sends it, figuring he won't send the money yet until he hears back from them. Feeling insecure, he asks Carrie if she'll stay with him. Carrie now feels sorry for him and says yes, but only on the condition that they get married. He says he'll get a license under a different name--Wheeler . The ensuing wedding doesn't exactly sound like a dream: "They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found convenient" . Hurstwood hears back from his employers. They're shocked at what he did, but if he returns the money, they won't prosecute. Whew--what a relief. But his employers aren't sure about the idea of him coming back to work. They'll get back to him on that one. He's bummed. He pays them back almost everything he owes, pocketing a bit for himself. He tells Carrie to pack up and has her trunk sent to the train station with instructions to get it to NYC. Despite the communication with his employers, he's still afraid a police officer might be on his trail as he heads out of Canada to New York. They ride into New York and Carrie's entranced by the place. When they get into Grand Central Station, Hurstwood pretty much leaves Carrie in the dust as he makes a beeline for the street, still fearing he might be arrested at any moment. Carrie catches up with him and he hails them a cab--for the first time, he starts worrying about how much it's going to cost him. Hurstwood tells Carrie they should go apartment hunting right away, and he tells the cab driver to take him to a hotel where he's less likely to be seen by anyone he knows. Carrie asks Hurstwood where the "Residence part" of New York is and he tells her this isn't the kind of place with big houses and picket fences. She doesn't like the sound of that.


prompt:
Chapter: Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident
that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York. In
Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires were
not numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown
all moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the inhabitants
was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic,
social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from
view. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade.
In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been
diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous.
The sea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear
wholly from view--remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.

There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which, though
not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the world.
The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the small.
This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the magnificent
residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops, restaurants,
resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the wines; drink
of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious content, of the
glances which gleam like light from defiant spears; feel the quality
of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of
place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high
and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of
greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the human
heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must attain, so
long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of greatness. So long,
also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its desperate results in
the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent. One day of it, like one
drop of the other, will so affect and discolour the views, the aims, the
desire of the mind, that it will thereafter remain forever dyed. A day
of it to the untried mind is like opium to the untried body. A craving
is set up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and
death. Aye! dreams unfulfilled--gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which
beckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve
their power and restore us blind to nature's heart.

A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the illusions
and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength of hope
which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. Such an atmosphere
could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen, but in so far
as they were excited, the lack of hope made them proportionately bitter.
He could not fail to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every
hand. He had been to New York before and knew the resources of its
folly. In part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all
that he most respected on this earth--wealth, place, and fame. The
majority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day
as manager hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most
inviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and
individuals here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was
brushing elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or
five hundred thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than
comfortably in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample
sums, so that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite
sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of
his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle
for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he was not so
dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a sudden, then, this
show of fine clothes, place, and power took on peculiar significance. It
was emphasised by contrast with his own distressing state.

And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of arrest
was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger dissolved, the
next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry sum of thirteen
hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing,
food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated
to induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five
times that sum in the course of a year. He thought upon the subject
rather actively the first few days he was in New York, and decided
that he must act quickly. As a consequence, he consulted the business
opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations
on his own account.

That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he went
looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in Seventy-eighth Street
near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story building, and their flat was
on the third floor. Owing to the fact that the street was not yet built
up solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the trees
in Central Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse
of which was to be had out of the west windows. For the privilege of six
rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were compelled to pay
thirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a
home at the time. Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the
rooms here and in Chicago and mentioned it.

"You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you
go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of
these conveniences."

Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright
wood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,
which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,
dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her
very much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great
satisfaction in these things.

Hurstwood made arrangements with one of the instalment houses whereby
they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and
ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G. W.
Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It sounded
exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the janitor, but
in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as her own.

These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the advertised
opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town
bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not stomach the
commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a number of days
looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did, however, gain
considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of
Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with the police. The most
profitable and flourishing places he found to be those which conducted
anything but a legitimate business, such as that controlled by
Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private drinking booths on
the second floor were usually adjuncts of very profitable places. He
saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts shone with large diamonds,
and whose clothes were properly cut, that the liquor business here,
as elsewhere, yielded the same golden profit. At last he found an
individual who had a resort in Warren Street, which seemed an excellent
venture. It was fairly well-appearing and susceptible of improvement.
The owner claimed the business to be excellent, and it certainly looked
so.

"We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood.
"Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No
bums. We don't allow 'em in the place."

Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the trade for
a while.

"It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked.

"You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor trade," said
the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have. The other is down
in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone. If I had some one who
knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind sharing with him in this
one and letting him manage it."

"I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt a
little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.

"Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor.

He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and good-will,
and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial ability on
the part of the one who should come in. There was no property involved,
because the owner of the saloon merely rented from an estate.

The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood
whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one
hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in
order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It was
not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted, to
hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month now.
By judicious management and improvement, it might be made to pay more.
Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made over his
thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day.

His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie
that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,
introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very
disagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him
surly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in business.
Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like the class of patronage
which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it would take a long time
to make friends. These people hurried in and out without seeking the
pleasures of friendship. It was no gathering or lounging place. Whole
days and weeks passed without one such hearty greeting as he had been
wont to enjoy every day in Chicago.

For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities--those well-dressed,
elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and bring news
from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such in a month.
Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally read in the
evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he knew--whom
he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a bar like
Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House, uptown, but he
knew that he would never see them down here. Again, the business did not
pay as well as he thought. It increased a little, but he found he would
have to watch his household expenses, which was humiliating.

In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night, as
he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner with her
between six and seven, and to remain home until nine o'clock in the
morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time, and he began to
feel the drag of his duties.

The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very natural
way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress.'

"What kind?" said Hurstwood.

"Oh, something for street wear."

"All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it
would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing was said
about it the next day, but the following morning he asked:

"Have you done anything about your dress?"

"Not yet," said Carrie.

He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:

"Would you mind putting it off a few days?"

"No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. She
had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.
"Why?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine is
taking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly, but
just at present I am running close."

"Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me
before?"

"It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood.

For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way Hurstwood
spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal which he was
always about to put through. It was only the thought of a second, but it
was a beginning. It was something new in her thinking of Hurstwood.

Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same
sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full
revelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot long
dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.
The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether
he voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and
contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as nicely
as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada. Carrie
noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was
anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest many
amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his
business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago--not the liberal,
opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious to escape
detection.

In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she
was not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own
counsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.
This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem
reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great
love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is
reached.

As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties
of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous
mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting
where he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state
with his former, hour after hour, and day after day.

Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever
since one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the
city. It was in Broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he
knew. There was no time for simulating non-recognition. The exchange of
glances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent.
So the friend, a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt,
perforce, the necessity of stopping.

"How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of
feeling and a lack of plausible interest.

"Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it with you?"

"All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located here
now?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street."

"Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come down and see
you."

"Do," said Hurstwood.

"So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on.

"He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't think
of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and hoped
sincerely he would meet no one else.

These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope was
that things would change for the better in a money way.

He had Carrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his
position. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have
to do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensions
sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would
be well. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of human
nature--the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With
him and with her varying mental states were common. At any moment the
extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table. This
often happens in the best regulated families. Little things brought out
on such occasions need great love to obliterate them afterward. Where
that is not, both parties count two and two and make a problem after a
while.

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

completion: Hurstwood begins to think an expensive city like New York isn't such a great place to be if you're not filthy rich. Despite his financial woes though, he and Carrie find a nice apartment with a sweet view of Central Park. Carrie complains about how small it is compared to where she lived in Chicago, but so it goes in NYC. Hurstwood sets about looking for business opportunities. He ends up finding work managing a local saloon . At first he's pretty stoked about having gotten his new career going, however things sour pretty quickly. His alcoholic business partner is cranky and Hurstwood doesn't really care for the saloon's sub-par clientele. Plus, the business doesn't pay as much as he expected. About a month after getting the job, Carrie announces she's going to buy a dress. He asks her if she can wait because money is a little tight. She agrees to hold off, but thinks it's a little weird since he never had money troubles before. She starts to notice other signs of financial problems and grows uneasy. On top of his money troubles, Hurstwood lives in fear of running into someone he knew from his old life. He recalls a time in which he ran into someone on the street who promised to stop into his saloon but then never did. He also sees trouble on the horizon in his marriage so long as money problems persist.


prompt:
Chapter: The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was paralleled
in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things which fortune provided
with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first expression
of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its clear atmosphere,
more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar indifference struck her
forcibly. She had never seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon
enlisted her affection. The new furniture made an excellent showing,
the sideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. The
furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called parlour,
or front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like
to learn to play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household
tactics and information. For the first time in her life she felt
settled, and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived
of it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while she
concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered
at ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and
indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the whistles of the
hundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of the Sound
steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The mere fact that these
things spoke from the sea made them wonderful. She looked much at what
she could see of the Hudson from her west windows and of the great city
building up rapidly on either hand. It was much to ponder over, and
sufficed to entertain her for more than a year without becoming stale.

For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his difficulties
to her. He carried himself with the same self-important air, took his
new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities
and successes. Each evening he arrived promptly to dinner, and found the
little dining-room a most inviting spectacle. In a way, the smallness
of the room added to its luxury. It looked full and replete. The
white-covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a
four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red shade.
Between Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out all right, and
canned goods did the rest for a while. Carrie studied the art of making
biscuit, and soon reached the stage where she could show a plate of
light, palatable morsels for her labour.

In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter came,
and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the attending of
theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great efforts to meet
all expenditures without a show of feeling one way or the other.
He pretended that he was reinvesting his money in strengthening the
business for greater ends in the future. He contented himself with
a very moderate allowance of personal apparel, and rarely suggested
anything for Carrie. Thus the first winter passed.

In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did increase
somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which he had
anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached certain
conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances.

Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and aggressive
nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed satisfactory
enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre together,
occasionally in season to the beaches and different points about the
city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood naturally abandoned
his show of fine manners with her and modified his attitude to one
of easy familiarity. There were no misunderstandings, no apparent
differences of opinion. In fact, without money or visiting friends,
he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie
rather sympathised with his efforts and thought nothing upon her lack
of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a
corporate entity and her flat temporarily seemed sufficient.

However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began to
pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes.
He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him, but
allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The first time
he did this he sent a message saying that he would be detained. Carrie
ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again. The second time,
also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third time he forgot
entirely and explained afterwards. These events were months apart, each.

"Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.

"Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accounts I
had to straighten."

"I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing to
have such a nice dinner."

The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the feeling
about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the ordinary.

"I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the evening, "I
was so busy."

"Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.

"I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too late
to do any good."

"And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.

Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to
imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He really
thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was finding its
natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the fact that he
had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past year he had
only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him by conditions
which he made, and that she had not gained any friends or associates, he
drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a feeling of satisfaction
in having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction worked
its natural result. That is, since he imagined he saw her satisfied,
he felt called upon to give only that which contributed to such
satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the decorations, the food, and
the necessary clothing. Thoughts of entertaining her, leading her out
into the shine and show of life, grew less and less. He felt attracted
to the outer world, but did not think she would care to go along. Once
he went to the theatre alone. Another time he joined a couple of his
new friends at an evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were
beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however,
in a much less imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He
avoided the gay places where he would be apt to meet those who had known
him. Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving him
greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact, she was
not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when
he should have duly considered it. When he did not come home it did
not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for
having the usual allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop,
friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy
himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her
state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was
that Hurstwood was somewhat different.

Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street
the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved
a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie
afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the
arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by
the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the
like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down,
was used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened
into it from each flat.

If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor
at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the
dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper,
the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age,
was there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and dressing-gown,
with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and
good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The
newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient.
Carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling
stirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.

"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie to
Hurstwood at the breakfast table.

"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.

"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some one
over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."

"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in
this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York
opinion about neighbours.

"Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine other
families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people have been
here over a month and I haven't seen any one before this morning."

"It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you're going to
get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company."

"I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.

The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no more upon
the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she
encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised her and nodded,
for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the probability of
acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint recognition on this
occasion, there would have been no future association.

Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard her
play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the flats,
and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the brilliance
of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself, and such
variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of
great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps
and shadows--indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and
in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was ready for any extension of
the friendship which might follow.

One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the kitchen,
pressed the button which caused the front door of the general entrance
on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie waited at
her own door on the third floor to see who it might be coming up to call
on her, Mrs. Vance appeared.

"I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and forgot
my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."

This was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever
they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for it,
however.

"Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thing
sometimes."

"Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a
moment.

Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was
well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable
companion.

On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both flats were
good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended somewhat more to the
luxurious.

"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said Mrs.
Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meet you. You
play cards, don't you?"

"A little," said Carrie.

"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home bring him
over."

"He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.

"Well, when he does come we'll call him in."

Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an individual
a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his seemingly
comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to his good
looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and laid himself
out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and talking to her
about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano,
and at last Hurstwood came.

"I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated
Carrie. "Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance,
extending his hand upon introduction.

"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said
Hurstwood.

He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw
again what she for some time had subconsciously missed in Hurstwood--the
adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She also saw that she
was not well dressed--not nearly as well dressed--as Mrs. Vance. These
were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was cleared up for her.
She felt that her life was becoming stale, and therein she felt cause
for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy was restored. The desirous
Carrie was whispered to concerning her possibilities.

There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had little
power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable of
getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily borne
along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the marked
contrasts which Carrie had observed.

He did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in her
eyes. Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and
seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly.

"Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had
stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft
pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and
Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.

"All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as
though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "What shall we
see?"

"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think he is
the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play."

"What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.

"Let's go at once and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street,"
said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's at the Madison
Square."

"I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay for
seats?"

"Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.

The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly arrayed
in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match. Carrie had
gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman pained her by
contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little things which Carrie
had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant green leather purse set
with her initials, a fancy handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and
the like. Carrie felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare
with this woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick Mrs.
Vance for her raiment alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust
thought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure, and
had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of
her colour of beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the
two, both of quality and age, but this difference was not especially
noticeable. It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with
her state.

The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable features
of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and afterwards, not only
all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but the men who love to
gaze upon and admire them. It was a very imposing procession of pretty
faces and fine clothes. Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes,
and gloves, and walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or
theatres strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth Streets. Equally
the men paraded with the very latest they could afford. A tailor might
have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and
colours, a hatter on hats. It was literally true that if a lover of
fine clothes secured a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on
Broadway. So true and well understood was this fact, that several years
later a popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the
afternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-halls of
the city.

In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On the
other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only knew of
it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely to see and be
seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any tendency to fall
short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion
of the town.

Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car at
Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely company
which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She noticed suddenly
that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome
men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any
rules of propriety. To stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie
found herself stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats,
and silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into
conscious eyes. Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding
affected smiles and perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling
of goodness and the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered
cheeks and lips, the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous
eye, were common enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was
in fashion's crowd, on parade in a show place--and such a show place!
Jewellers' windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency.
Florist shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in
rapid succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen
in immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of
expensive salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue
jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were
shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,
and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life
of her, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her
beauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be
evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two.
It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here
again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the
delight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!

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

completion: Despite living on a tighter budget, married life is going pretty well for Carrie. She enjoys going all Martha Stewart and doing domestic tasks like cooking dinner each night. A whole year passes , and in the following year Hurstwood's business picks up and he starts going out alone more, skipping his dinners with Carrie. After the third time he does this, Carrie is peeved... but not devastated, because she's not so into Hurstwood anymore. In fact, Carrie's even making some new friends. She strikes up a friendship with Mrs. Vance, a woman who recently moved in across the hall with her husband. One night, Mrs. V invites Carrie and Hurstwood to come over to play cards and meet Mr. Vance. Carrie warns them that Hurstwood is going to be late. Carrie and the Vances play cards and Hurstwood later shows up. Carrie notices that she's looking a little shabby compared to the fashion plate Mrs. Vance, and this seriously bums her out. One morning, Mrs. Vance invites Carrie to go to the theater--again, Carrie is super jealous of Mrs. V's outfit and accessories. As the two ladies stroll down Broadway, they find themselves in the midst of something of an impromptu fashion parade with ladies and gents all checking out each other's outfits. Carrie likes the attention until she realizes that--eek--she's the worst-dressed of everyone. Now she wants to get out of there in a hurry, though she's eager to return when she's looking better.


prompt:
Chapter: Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an
exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the play.
The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his popularity by
presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which sufficient sorrow was
introduced to lend contrast and relief to humour. For Carrie, as we well
know, the stage had a great attraction. She had never forgotten her one
histrionic achievement in Chicago. It dwelt in her mind and occupied her
consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-chair
and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her state. Never
could she witness a play without having her own ability vividly brought
to consciousness. Some scenes made her long to be a part of them--to
give expression to the feelings which she, in the place of the character
represented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid
imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She
lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her
daily life.

It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's core
by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing in her
heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen. Oh, these
women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong, who were
they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the astonishingly coloured
buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold? Where were these lovely
creatures housed? Amid what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated
walls, elaborate tapestries did they move? Where were their rich
apartments, loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables
champed these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages?
Where lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights,
the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled
with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures
could not be. Some hothouses held them. It ached her to know that she
was not one of them--that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not
come true. She wondered at her own solitude these two years past--her
indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had
expected.

The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which charmingly
overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love and jealousy
amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing to those who
have all their days longed for such material surroundings and have never
had them gratified. They have the charm of showing suffering under ideal
conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not
suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried
servants? Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing.
Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever
they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate them
under such charming conditions upon the stage. So affected was her
mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an extraordinarily
beautiful thing. She was soon lost in the world it represented, and
wished that she might never return. Between the acts she studied the
galaxy of matinee attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a
new idea of the possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen
it all--that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight.

Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The scene she
had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its height. Such
a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It clinched her
convictions concerning her state. She had not lived, could not lay claim
to having lived, until something of this had come into her own life.
Women were spending money like water; she could see that in every
elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal
things in which the elegant dames were interested. And she--she had
scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times
a month.

That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was not
what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant working at
dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running scenes of the
play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress--the sweetheart
who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had won Carrie's
heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest, her sufferings
had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel.
It was done as she was sure she could do it. There were places in which
she could even do better. Hence she repeated the lines to herself. Oh,
if she could only have such a part, how broad would be her life! She,
too, could act appealingly.

When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking and
thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations broken in
upon; so she said little or nothing.

"What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing her
quiet, almost moody state.

"Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well tonight."

"Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.

"Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good."

"That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a show
to-night."

"I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions should
have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I've been to the
matinee this afternoon."

"Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?"

"A Gold Mine."

"How was it?"

"Pretty good," said Carrie.

"And you don't want to go again to night?"

"I don't think I do," she said.

Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the dinner
table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach does wonders.
She went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered her equanimity.
The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered. As often as she
might recover from these discontented thoughts now, they would occur
again. Time and repetition--ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and
the solid stone--how utterly it yields at last!

Not long after this matinee experience--perhaps a month--Mrs. Vance
invited Carrie to an evening at the theatre with them. She heard Carrie
say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.

"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're going
down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come along with
us."

"I think I will," answered Carrie.

She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past
five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for
position in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of
her association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had her
attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which pertains
to a woman's apparel.

"Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen the new
gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out of a
large selection.

"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance, "get
button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the rage
this fall."

"I will," said Carrie.

"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They have
some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would look
stunning on you. I said so when I saw it."

Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they
were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common between
pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature so well that
she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the latest things.

"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're
selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circular
style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would
look so nice on you."

Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up between her
and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one thing and another,
which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of opinion. He noticed
the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs.
Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence the change came. He was
not inclined to offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that
Carrie's wants were expanding. This did not appeal to him exactly, but
he cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. Still, there
was something in the details of the transactions which caused Carrie
to feel that her requests were not a delight to him. He did not enthuse
over the purchases. This led her to believe that neglect was creeping
in, and so another small wedge was entered.

Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the
fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own
satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the thought
that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat and fitting. She
looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs. Vance praised her,
which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness
into her large eyes. It was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance, at his
wife's request, had called a coach. "Your husband isn't coming?"
suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie in his little parlour.

"No; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."

"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He might
turn up."

"I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.

"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows, though I
guess."

Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,
gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat.

"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said Mrs.
Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"

"I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie.

The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart figure.
She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking, and young, but
nothing more.

"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance, "and
we're trying to show him around a little."

"Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer.

"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said young
Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while Mrs. Vance
completed the last touches of her toilet.

"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.

"It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames, pleasantly.

He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free of
affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming the last
traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at conversation,
but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly courageous. Carrie
felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk to him.

"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside."

"Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob, you'll have
to look after Mrs. Wheeler."

"I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "You won't
need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of ingratiating
and help-me-out kind of way.

"Not very, I hope," said Carrie.

They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and climbed
into the open coach.

"All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance
rolled away.

"What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.

"Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"

"Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man."

"I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.

"I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very much."

Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it his
bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to find her so
young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a respectful interest.
There was nothing of the dashing lady's man about him. He had respect
for the married state, and thought only of some pretty marriageable
girls in Indianapolis.

"Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.

"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."

"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."

"I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange to me as
when I first came here."

"You're not from the West, are you?"

"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.

"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here so
very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are here."

"What is your line?" asked Carrie.

"I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.

Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and
partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached.

Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking in the
streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous, pedestrians
many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were crowded. At
Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from several new
hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion of sumptuous
hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was noticeably
crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress. At Sherry's an
imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped them out. Young Ames
held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. They entered
the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting
themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room.

In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In the
whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had
not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost
indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that this
was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of expense
limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class. Carrie
had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World." She had seen
notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's. The Misses
So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's. Young Mr.
So-and-So would entertain a party of friends at a private luncheon on
the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of conventional, perfunctory
notices of the doings of society, which she could scarcely refrain from
scanning each day, had given her a distinct idea of the gorgeousness
and luxury of this wonderful temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was
really in it. She had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large
and portly doorman. She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and
portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care
of canes, overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber,
all decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was
Mrs. Vance; young, beautiful, and well off--at least, sufficiently so to
come here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.

Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were seated
parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance and
dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate.
Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in polished glasses,
and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined into one tone of light
which it requires minutes of complacent observation to separate and take
particular note of. The white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright
costumes of the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were
exceedingly noticeable.

Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and accepted the
seat which the head waiter provided for her. She was keenly aware of
all the little things that were done--the little genuflections and
attentions of the waiters and head waiter which Americans pay for. The
air with which the latter pulled out each chair, and the wave of the
hand with which he motioned them to be seated, were worth several
dollars in themselves.

Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. The
large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army,
sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous
impossibility--an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen
kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the
half-dozen; entrees, fish, and meats at prices which would house one
over night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty and two dollars seemed
to be the most common figures upon this most tastefully printed bill of
fare.

Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken
carried her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion
when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet in a good restaurant in
Chicago. It was only momentary--a sad note as out of an old song--and
then it was gone. But in that flash was seen the other Carrie--poor,
hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed
world, from which she only wandered because she could not find work.

On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue,
set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of
fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. On the
ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre
where spread a cluster of lights--incandescent globes mingled with
glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. The floor was of
a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction were
mirrors--tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and
re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times.

The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint
of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware, the
name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small,
red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments
and faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an air of
exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped,
touched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personal attention
which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one side,
elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup--green turtle, yes. One portion, yes.
Oysters--certainly--half-dozen--yes. Asparagus. Olives--yes."

It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order for all,
inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the company with open
eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so that the rich spent
their days and evenings. Her poor little mind could not rise above
applying each scene to all society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd
on Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre at the matinee, in the
coaches and dining-halls at night. It must be glow and shine everywhere,
with coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of it all.
In two long years she had never even been in such a place as this.

Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in former
days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes,
and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the
table in a wicker basket.

Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose rather
large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a good, wide,
well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one
side. He seemed to have the least touch of boyishness to Carrie, and yet
he was a man full grown.

"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his reflection,
"I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this
way."

Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his
seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which she had
never pondered.

"Do you?" she answered, interestedly.

"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are worth. They
put on so much show."

"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said Mrs.
Vance.

"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the bill of
fare, though he had ordered.

Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
forehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As he
studied the crowd his eye was mild.

"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to
Carrie, and nodding in a direction.

"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.

"Over there in the corner--way over. Do you see that brooch?"

"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.

"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.

"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be
agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps
preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better
educated than she was--that his mind was better. He seemed to look it,
and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could understand that people
could be wiser. She had seen a number of people in her life who reminded
her of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars. This strong
young man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold
of things which she did not quite understand, but approved of. It was
fine to be so, as a man, she thought.

The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the
time--"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it. Vance
had seen it discussed in some of the papers.

"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I notice
this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking at Carrie as
he spoke.

"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.

"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This last
story is pretty good."

"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.

Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.

"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.

Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or had
a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed
that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed
youth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it. It
was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and for the first
time felt the pain of not understanding.

Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke.
He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly
thought of a high order--the right thing to think, and wondered what
else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she listened
and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to
her.

As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they
were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little
attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation
upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of
Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind,
which was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge. His
sympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of
people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head gave it a sandy
tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie noticed all these things
as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. This man was far
ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter than
Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that he was
exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his interest in her was a
far-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the things that touched
his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they appealed to
her.

"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and
the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend
my money this way."

"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing
itself distinctly upon her for the first time.

"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of
thing to be happy."

Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight
with her.

"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. He's
so strong."

Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these
impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient,
however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself
upon Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he
moved in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had seen
on the stage--the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she
knew not what. He had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast
between this life and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference
which concerned only him.

As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and
then they were off again, and so to the show.

During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively.
He mentioned things in the play which she most approved of--things which
swayed her deeply.

"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.

"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great
thing."

Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she could
only be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he knew--and he
approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would approve
of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had, although it did
not concern her at all. She did not know why she felt this way.

At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going
back with them.

"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.

"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third
Street."

Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked
her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had
thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours, the minutes of
the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them!

She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it make?
Still, the coach seemed lorn.

When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did not
know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference could
it make--what difference could it make?

Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were
scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then
retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.
It was disagreeable to her.

Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little
hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and
conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope and
pity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.

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

completion: We're reminded that Carrie loves the theater and told that she still thinks a lot about her stage debut back in Chicago. The play Carrie and Mrs. Vance go to see is basically about rich people suffering heartbreak and jealousy, and seeing the luxurious world portrayed on stage further stirs Carrie's desire for expensive stuff. After seeing all the displays of wealth on the street and at the theater, going back to her apartment makes Carrie think about how deprived she is. She starts daydreaming about how much she wants to get back into acting. Needless to say, when Hurstwood comes home he finds Carrie in a sour mood. In an effort to cheer her up, Hurstwood asks her if she wants to go to the theater. She tells him she's already gone that afternoon, but then after eating dinner, she changes her mind. They go to the theater and Carrie again becomes dissatisfied with her own life as she looks at more spectacles of wealth. Fast forward a month: Mrs. Vance invites Carrie to dinner at a fancy restaurant and then to the theater with her and Mr. Vance on a night when Hurstwood has other dinner plans. Mrs. Vance has become Carrie's fashion guru, encouraging her to buy more and more stuff, which is starting to bother Hurstwood. And the fact that he's bothered annoys Carrie who feels like he's neglecting her needs. Carrie gets ready to go to the theater with Mr. and Mrs. Vance. They meet up and Mr. V tells her to write a note to Hurstwood letting him know where they are in case he gets back. Carrie goes back to her apartment to write the note, and when she returns to the Vance's' apartment she finds a surprise: Mrs. Vance's cousin, Bob Ames, who's visiting from Indianapolis. As the two chat, Carrie thinks that not only is this Ames dude smokin' hot, he seems like a sweet, genuine guy. Uh-oh... They all get ready to leave and Mrs. Vance tells Ames he'll have to "look after" Carrie. Stirring up trouble much, Mrs. V? On the ride over to the restaurant, Carrie and Ames chat some more about what a cool city NYC is. Ames has a job with an electrical company. As they head into the restaurant, Carrie again notices all the signs of wealth around her. She's extremely impressed with how fancy the restaurant is--this kind of place is way beyond Hurstwood's means now--and she thinks about how lucky Mrs. Vance is. Mr. Vance orders a ton of fancy, expensive food and wine for everyone. Carrie admires Ames as they eat, and then Ames announces that he sometimes thinks that rich people showing off their money like this is actually kind of gross. Carrie's intrigued and wants to hear more , but Mr. and Mrs. Vance say that they think rich people should do whatever they want with their money, which pretty much shuts down that discussion. The subject shifts to the latest bestseller, Moulding a Maiden by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance thinks it's good, Carrie hasn't read it, and Ames thinks it's nearly as bad as Dora Thorne, which totally offends Carrie because she had read that one and thought it was okay. Nevertheless, Carrie is impressed that Ames seems so smart--way smarter than either Drouet or Hurstwood. Ames tells Carrie he doesn't care about being rich and drops that old cliche "money can't buy happiness." She's skeptical, but plays along like she agrees. They all leave the restaurant and go to the theater. During the play, Ames tells Carrie he loves the theater, which makes her want to revive her acting career even more. When the show ends, Carrie finds out that Ames isn't returning to the apartment with them. Bummer. It's a lonely ride back without him. Carrie returns to her apartment to find Hurstwood already in bed. She can't bring herself to get into the bed with him so she goes to the dining room to curl up in the rocking chair and think.