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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.

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

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

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

"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.

"Why?" she questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is he?" asked Carrie doubtfully.

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

"What's that?" said Carrie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drouet had not thought of that.

"So we ought," he observed readily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drouet smiled.

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

Drouet laughed loud.

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

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

"On Wednesday," he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're so kind," observed Carrie.

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

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

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

"He seems to be," said Carrie.

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

