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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When will I see you again?"

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

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

She shook her head.

"Not so soon," she answered.

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

Carrie assented.

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

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

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

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

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

Hurstwood arose.

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

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

"Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.

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

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

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

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

"I will," said Drouet, smilingly.

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

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

They separated in the most cordial manner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope you do," said Carrie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.

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

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




The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth
of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related to his
family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast with
his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far
without the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was
heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by
his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of
indifference.

Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.
There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth
in the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to
experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's feet.
When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her
eyes were young.

When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when
the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale
practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which bound
his feet.

"George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long
since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want you to
get us a season ticket to the races."

"Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising inflection.

"Yes," she answered.

The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the South
Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who did not
affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs. Hurstwood had
never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain
considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing, one of her
neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of money,
made out of the coal business, had done so. In the next place, her
favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and
betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a
two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit
Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to
marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things
and parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an
incentive as anything.

Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.
They were in the sitting room on the second floor, waiting for supper.
It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see "The
Covenant," which had brought him home to make some alterations in his
dress.

"You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked, hesitating
to say anything more rugged.

"No," she replied impatiently.

"Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get mad
about it. I'm just asking you."

"I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a season ticket."

"And I'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her,
"that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager will
give it to me."

He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the race-track
magnates.

"We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply.

"You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs one hundred and
fifty dollars."

"I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I want the
ticket and that's all there is to it."

She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.

"Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone of
voice.

As usual, the table was one short that evening.

The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket
was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not mind giving
his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not like to be
forced to provide against his will.

"Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers are
getting ready to go away?"

"No. Where, I wonder?"

"Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me. She
just put on more airs about it."

"Did she say when?"

"Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again--they always
do."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of these
days."

Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.

"'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed, mocking her
acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" in France,'--vain
thing. As If it was anything to go to Europe."

"It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood.

It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.

"Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day, thus
revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.

"Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never before been kept
in ignorance concerning departures.

"He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight put
upon her father.

"What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think
that he should be made to pump for information in this manner.

"A tennis match," said Jessica.

"He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it
difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.

"I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. In the
past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which was a
compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in part still
existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As it was, it
did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The TONE was always
modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection, and now he saw
that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge was no longer
intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not. He
heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. Some days he found
that he was all at sea as to what they were talking about--things they
had arranged to do or that they had done in his absence. More affecting
was the feeling that there were little things going on of which he no
longer heard. Jessica was beginning to feel that her affairs were her
own. George, Jr., flourished about as if he were a man entirely and must
needs have private matters. All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a
trace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in his official
position, at least--and felt that his importance should not begin
to wane here. To darken it all, he saw the same indifference and
independence growing in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills.

He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he was
not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house, but
he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into her
comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such
delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when Drouet
was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cosey little
quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby Drouet would be
led to inform Carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful.
Things were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change.
Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory.

The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--a
letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He was
not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing
affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at his
office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of delicately
coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept locked
in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the cleric and very
official-looking nature of his position. The five bartenders viewed with
respect the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and
penmanship.

Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law which
governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began to feel
those subtleties which he could find words to express. With every
expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings which
there found words took hold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy of all
the affection he could there express.

Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command
that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. Experience had
not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of
the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid lustre no suggestion
of the knowledge of disappointment. She had been troubled in a way by
doubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could be
traced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. The mouth had
the expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might be
upon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus ever present.
The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity
of formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself.

There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her
domination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of some
women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently powerful to
move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance, but there was
that in what she had already experienced which left her a little less
than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was
confused as to what these things might be. Every hour the kaleidoscope
of human affairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith it
became for her the desired--the all. Another shift of the box, and some
other had become the beautiful, the perfect.

On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a nature
well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle--an
uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She was
constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who
slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor. The
poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings, hurrying home
from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from the depths of
her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her
little head and wondering. They had so little, she thought. It was so
sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded clothes pained her eyes.

"And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.

On the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen with picks,
coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about some work
which was a mere matter of strength--and they touched her fancy. Toil,
now that she was free of it, seemed even a more desolate thing than when
she was part of it. She saw it through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre
half-light, which was the essence of poetic feeling. Her old father,
in his flour-dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory,
revived by a face in a window. A shoemaker pegging at his last, a
blastman seen through a narrow window in some basement where iron was
being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some window, his coat
off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back in fancy to the details
of the mill. She felt, though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts
upon this score. Her sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil
from which she had so recently sprung, and which she best understood.

Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose feelings
were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know, but it was this
in her, after all, which attracted him. He never attempted to analyse
the nature of his affection. It was sufficient that there was tenderness
in her eye, weakness in her manner, good nature and hope in her
thoughts. He drew near this lily, which had sucked its waxen beauty and
perfume from below a depth of waters which he had never penetrated,
and out of ooze and mould which he could not understand. He drew near
because it was waxen and fresh. It lightened his feelings for him. It
made the morning worth while.

In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness had
all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as
pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her smartly
and had high heels. She had learned much about laces and those little
neckpieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form had
filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.

Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson
Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,
even when Drouet was at home.

The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had
found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which
bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year when the
fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little pond near by
some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats. In the
shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his
arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old gardener was upon the
lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes. High
overhead was the clean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness
of the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy
sparrows.

Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the
same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no need to
write. He had come away to this place with the lightness of heart which
characterises those who put weariness behind. Now, in the shade of this
cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the lover. He
heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they
were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The hum of the surrounding
city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music. He looked
and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his present fixed
condition not at all. He got back in fancy to the old Hurstwood, who was
neither married nor fixed in a solid position for life. He remembered
the light spirit in which he once looked after the girls--how he had
danced, escorted them home, hung over their gates. He almost wished he
was back there again--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were
wholly free.

At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean.
She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of
pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue material,
and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin-stripe of blue upon a
snow-white ground--stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her brown shoes
peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried her gloves in
her hand.

Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.

"You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking
her hand.

"Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?"

"I didn't know," he replied.

He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then he
took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and touched her
face here and there.

"Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."

They were happy in being near one another--in looking into each other's
eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had sub sided, he said:

"When is Charlie going away again?"

"I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to do for the
house here now."

Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He looked up
after a time to say:

"Come away and leave him."

He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were of
little importance.

"Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling her
gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.

"Where do you want to go?" he enquired.

There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her
feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.

"We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.

He had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal would be
suggested.

"Why not?" he asked softly.

"Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."

He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. It had no
serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate decision.

"I would have to give up my position," he said.

The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight
consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty
scene.

"I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said, thinking of
Drouet.

"It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as good as
moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side."

He had fixed upon that region as an objective point.

"Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long as he is
here. I wouldn't want to run away."

The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly
that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be gotten over
easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a
moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. He
could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. When
he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it was to
have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased in value in
his eyes because of her objection. She was something to struggle for,
and that was everything. How different from the women who yielded
willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.

"And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly.

She shook her head.

He sighed.

"You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a few
moments, looking up into her eyes.

She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at
what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who could feel this
concerning her.

"No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"

Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street.

"I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don't like to
be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting? You're not any
happier, are you?"

"Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that."

"Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our days. If
you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to you the biggest
part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," he exclaimed, throwing
sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes,
"I can't live without you, and that's all there is to it. Now," he
concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of
at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall I do?"

This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance of
the load without the weight touched the woman's heart.

"Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll try and
find out when he's going."

"What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of feeling.

"Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."

She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting
into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields.

Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be
persuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to
wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was thinking of
some question which would make her tell.

Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often
disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the
difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way. It
had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and
was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious thought.

"Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look
which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, or this
week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you I had to go away--that
I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more--would
you come with me?" His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate
glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.

"Yes," she said.

"You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?"

"Not if you couldn't wait."

He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a
chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. He had
a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet
seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. He let it stand.

"Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an
afterthought striking him.

"If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it
would be all right."

"I meant that," he said.

"Yes."

The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered whatever
could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it was, he
could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she loved him.
There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her.

"Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these
evenings," and then he laughed.

"I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrie added
reflectively.

"I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.

She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the
more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the marriage
clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with such
affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.

"Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely
park.

"All right," said Carrie.

They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes.

"'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich."

 Even as her neighbor Mrs. Hale is spreading gossip about the rooming house, Carrie reflects on her situation with Drouet and begins to see hope of a way out, mistakenly perceiving in Hurstwood an advance toward honor and self-respect. Hurstwood, however, thinks only of "pleasure without responsibility." He wishes to do nothing that would "complicate his life." During their next meeting Hurstwood realizes that Carrie takes their love "on a much higher basis" than he believed. She holds him off, granting only "tokens of affection." Hurstwood sees that Carrie will be no easy conquest and so resolves to control his ardor. Hurstwood pretends to believe that Carrie is actually married to Drouet, and hopes that Drouet will not tell Carrie that he has a wife and family. When Drouet returns home from his business trip, Carrie once again poses the question of marriage. Of course Drouet does not plan to marry her, even in the distant future. Carrie therefore feels justified in her affair with Hurstwood, believing that it will lead to the secure and honorable state of matrimony. Drouet and Carrie accept an invitation from Hurstwood to attend the theater. A secret letter to Carrie from Hurstwood asks her to meet him in the afternoon before the performance. At that time the lovers agree not to show any interest in each other when Drouet is present. That evening, Hurstwood is particularly attentive to his old friend Drouet and strives to avoid "that subtle ridicule which a lover in favor may so secretly practice before the mistress of his heart." It is difficult, because in the play "The Covenant," a young wife listens willingly to her seductive lover while her husband is away. "Served him right," remarks Drouet, speaking of the husband, "I haven't any pity for a man who would be such a chump as that." Hurstwood answers gently that "you can never tell"; perhaps the man thought he was right. Emerging from the theater Hurstwood is approached by a panhandler but, blinded by the presence of Carrie, he does not even see the fellow. The good-natured Drouet quickly responds to the man's plight "with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart." The occurrence is scarcely noticed by the lovers. At home, the details of Hurstwood's marriage show that it is going into a crisis. He is continually more put off by his wife's self-centered demands and his children's shallow behavior. Hurstwood begins writing daily letters to Carrie from his office. Each new sentence allows him to feel the subtleties that he tries to express. He loves Carrie for her youth, beauty, and her good nature. She is sympathetic and kind to him and full of pity for all who suffer. All these qualities make Carrie a "waxen lily" in Hurstwood's eyes. He begins to feel youthful himself. The lovers meet in the park to discuss the future. Carrie says that she is willing to leave Drouet anytime if Hurstwood consents to marry her. Her refusal merely to become his mistress causes Hurstwood to be even more in love with her. To test her affection for him, Hurstwood asks with unconscious irony if she would leave Chicago with him without notice. Of course she will, if he will marry her, is the reply. Hurstwood did not mean the question to be taken so seriously. He replies jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these evenings," and then laughs.

