Chapter: Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had
laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating
around having what he considered a gay time. On this particular evening
he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which occupied
a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. There--after he visited the
resort of Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the imposing
Federal Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a
glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which
he lighted. This to him represented in part high life--a fair sample of
what the whole must be. Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a
moneyed man. He only craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such
doings seemed to him a part of the best. Rector's, with its polished
marble walls and floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china and
silverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actors and
professional men, seemed to him the proper place for a successful man to
go. He loved fine clothes, good eating, and particularly the company and
acquaintanceship of successful men. When dining, it was a source of keen
satisfaction to him to know that Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to
this same place, or that Henry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the
day, was then only a few tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain
this satisfaction, for there one could encounter politicians, brokers,
actors, some rich young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking
amid a buzz of popular commonplace conversation.

"That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of these gentlemen
among themselves, particularly among those who had not yet reached, but
hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine here lavishly
represented.

"You don't say so," would be the reply.

"Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the Grand Opera
House."

When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straighten
himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had any
vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this stirred it.
He would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some day. As it was,
he could eat where THEY did.

His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was another
yard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon from a
Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented with a blaze
of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The floors were of
brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of rich, dark, polished
wood, which reflected the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gave
the place a very sumptuous appearance. The long bar was a blaze of
lights, polished woodwork, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancy
bottles. It was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy wines,
and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country.

At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of Fitzgerald
and Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known
man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly
under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and a
solid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes,
his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his
importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being some
one worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit the
Adams Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar.

Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewd and
clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good impression.
His managerial position was fairly important--a kind of stewardship
which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had risen by
perseverance and industry, through long years of service, from the
position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his present altitude.
He had a little office in the place, set off in polished cherry and
grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather simple
accounts of the place--supplies ordered and needed. The chief executive
and financial functions devolved upon the owners--Messrs. Fitzgerald and
Moy--and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in.

For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits
of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie,
a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold,
which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and
engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a "Well, old
fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run
of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to
do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and
friendship, which improved from the "How do you do?" addressed to
the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches, who, by long
frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the "Why, old
man, how are you?" which he addressed to those noted or rich individuals
who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was a class,
however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he could not
attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was professionally
tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying them the
deference which would win their good feeling without in the least
compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the last
place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet
remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of
good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converse
longest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time
once in a while--to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting
entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, had
his wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house on
the North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptable
individual of our great American upper class--the first grade below the
luxuriously rich.

Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy appearance
pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling salesman--and not
one of many years at that--but the firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Company
was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood
knew Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, in
company with several others, when the conversation was general. Drouet
had what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, and
could tell a good story when the occasion required. He could talk races
with Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning himself and his
experiences with women, and report the state of trade in the cities
which he visited, and so managed to make himself almost invariably
agreeable. To-night he was particularly so, since his report to the
company had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had been
satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.

"Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that
evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded.

Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the
bar.

"Oh, all right."

"I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?"

"Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip."

"Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which
half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "What
are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and
tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.

"Old Pepper," said Drouet.

"A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood.

"How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood.

"Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul."

"George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last
week."

"Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? We had
quite a time there together."

The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and
they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to
within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking
the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.

"What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him
around here in two weeks."

"Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet. "Say, he's a gouty old boy!"

"Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?"

"Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet. "He won't live much longer. Barely
comes down to the office now."

"Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood.

"Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.

"I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the other
members all there."

"No, he can't injure that any, I guess."

Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets,
the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable
distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.

To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of
mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an
anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the
moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Such
conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the
scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers
would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that
politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save
formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be
justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent
these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless,
the fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub
elbows, must be explained upon some grounds. It must be that a strange
bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious social
institution or it would not be.

Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by his
desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here dropped
in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, the
company, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might take it,
after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things which
they satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No evil could come
out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. The
worst effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the
material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly
splendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the
fault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind.
That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the
more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything
save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove the
element so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there would
not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which would
remain. The pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are
looked upon is proof of this assertion.

Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy
company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless,
wandering mental action which it represents--the love of light and show
and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal
stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweeping
night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering
night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of
pleasure.

"See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a
gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,
his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.

"No, where?" said Drouet.

"There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye,
"the man with the silk hat."

"Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?"

"That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist."

Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.

"Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said Drouet.

"Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, all right,"
and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.

"I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet.

"Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may be something to
it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the way," he added,
"are you going anywhere to-night?"

"'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of
the time.

"Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and he
drew out his watch.

The crowd was already thinning out considerably--some bound for the
theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of
all the pleasures--for the type of man there represented, at least--the
ladies.

"Yes, I will," said Drouet.

"Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you," said
Hurstwood.

"Sure," said Drouet, elated.

"You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added Hurstwood.

"Not a thing."

"Well, come round, then."

"I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked
Drouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call on
her before I go away."

"Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.

"Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet
confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.

"Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood.

"That's right," said Drouet, going out.

Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of
places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow
lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her
unfolding fate.




At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. The
fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased
her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie
manifested at first, expected a fair report. Hanson supposed that Carrie
would be satisfied.

"Well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and
looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, "how did you make out?"

"Oh," said Carrie, "it's pretty hard. I don't like it."

There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she
was both weary and disappointed.

"What sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he turned
upon his heel to go into the bathroom.

"Running a machine," answered Carrie.

It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the side
of the flat's success. He was irritated a shade because it could not
have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be pleased.

Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie arrived.
The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing now that
Carrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one relief of the
whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a
bright supper table, and some one to say: "Oh, well, stand it a little
while. You will get something better," but now this was ashes. She began
to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she
was supposed to work on and say nothing. She knew that she was to pay
four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that it would be
an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people.

Minnie was no companion for her sister--she was too old. Her thoughts
were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had any
pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed to do
all his mental operations without the aid of physical expression. He was
as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the other hand, had the blood
of youth and some imagination. Her day of love and the mysteries of
courtship were still ahead. She could think of things she would like to
do, of clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like to
visit. These were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was like
meeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to call forth
or respond to her feelings.

She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day,
that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these two
people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what she
would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After supper
she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was rather a
sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed
the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. She
wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with
Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot of
the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there. Her face took on
the semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go below.

"Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said Minnie to
her husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the
dining-room a few minutes.

"She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said Hanson. "Has she gone
downstairs?"

"Yes," said Minnie.

"I'd tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks without
getting another one."

Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.

"If I were you," he said a little later, "I wouldn't let her stand in
the door down there. It don't look good."

"I'll tell her," said Minnie.

The life of the streets continued for a long time to interest Carrie.
She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going
or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a very narrow round,
always winding up at points which concerned money, looks, clothes, or
enjoyment. She would have a far-off thought of Columbia City now and
then, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the
present day, but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her
whole attention.

The first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was the third,
was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing there,
Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of his
presence until he was quite near her.

"I'm after bread," was all he said as he passed.

The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson really
came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would see what
Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in mind than
she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put it into
her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade of
real antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He was
suspicious.

A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie's meditations
had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone upstairs before she
followed. She had realised with the lapse of the quarter hours that
Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a little resentful, a little
as if she had been forsaken--was not good enough. She went upstairs,
where everything was silent. Minnie was sewing by a lamp at the table.
Hanson had already turned in for the night. In her weariness and
disappointment Carrie did no more than announce that she was going to
bed.

"Yes, you'd better," returned Minnie. "You've got to get up early, you
know."

The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as Carrie
came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during breakfast, but
there was not much of interest which they could mutually discuss. As on
the previous morning, Carrie walked down town, for she began to realise
now that her four-fifty would not even allow her car fare after she paid
her board. This seemed a miserable arrangement. But the morning light
swept away the first misgivings of the day, as morning light is ever
wont to do.

At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome as the
preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on his round,
stopped by her machine.

"Where did you come from?" he inquired.

"Mr. Brown hired me," she replied.

"Oh, he did, eh!" and then, "See that you keep things going."

The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed
satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." Carrie had more
imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in the
matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to the girl
next to her, who was rather hardened by experience.

"I'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour. "What
with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me health."

They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and
exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She saw
that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed accordingly.

"Hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at noon.
"You're a daisy." He really expected to hear the common "Aw! go chase
yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by Carrie's silently
moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.

That night at the flat she was even more lonely--the dull situation
was becoming harder to endure. She could see that the Hansons seldom
or never had any company. Standing at the street door looking out,
she ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait and idle manner
attracted attention of an offensive but common sort. She was slightly
taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man of thirty, who in
passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned back, and said:

"Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?"

Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient thought
to reply: "Why, I don't know you," backing away as she did so.

"Oh, that don't matter," said the other affably.

She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her own
door quite out of breath. There was something in the man's look which
frightened her.

During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two
nights she found herself too tired to walk home, and expended car fare.
She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. She went
to bed one night before Hanson.

Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or
maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere
to continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her
acclimatization had been more gradual--less rigid. She would have done
better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more
of the city which she constantly troubled to know about.

On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella.
Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the
kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the
great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a
quarter of her small store to pay for it.

"What did you do that for, Carrie?" asked Minnie when she saw it.

"Oh, I need one," said Carrie.

"You foolish girl."

Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to be
a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.

On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars. Minnie
had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to
explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four
dollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of satisfaction.
He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan payments. As for
Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding clothes and amusement
on fifty cents a week. She brooded over this until she was in a state of
mental rebellion.

"I'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper.

"Not alone, are you?" asked Hanson.

"Yes," returned Carrie.

"I wouldn't," said Minnie.

"I want to see SOMETHING," said Carrie, and by the tone she put into
the last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased with
them.

"What's the matter with her?" asked Hanson, when she went into the front
room to get her hat.

"I don't know," said Minnie.

"Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone."

Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the
door. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not please
her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she heard the
highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial amusements.
They had been happy. On several days it rained and she used up car fare.
One night she got thoroughly soaked, going to catch the car at Van Buren
Street. All that evening she sat alone in the front room looking out
upon the street, where the lights were reflected on the wet pavements,
thinking. She had imagination enough to be moody.

On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty cents
in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed with some of
the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that they had more of
their earnings to use for themselves than she did. They had young men
of the kind whom she, since her experience with Drouet, felt above, who
took them about. She came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young
fellows of the shop. Not one of them had a show of refinement. She saw
only their workday side.

There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over
the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long,
thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the
streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the
problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter jacket,
no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about this, but at
last she summoned the courage.

"I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes," she said one evening
when they were together. "I need a hat."

Minnie looked serious.

"Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" she
suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of Carrie's
money would create.

"I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured Carrie.

"Could you pay two dollars?" asked Minnie.

Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and
liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring at
once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she
never knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air
which left disagreeable impressions.

The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It
blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without
a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind
struck her. In the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made
it worse. That day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards
evening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry.
Minnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself.

"I don't know," said Carrie. "I feel real bad."

She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed
sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.

Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour.
Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she
got up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was
lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was
out of work.

"I don't know," said Carrie; "I'll go down Monday and see if I can't get
something."

If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial than
the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her
last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered
about, utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming
unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening. Hanson
was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly she would
have to give up and go home.

On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents
for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of places
without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant
where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl.
She moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in
spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about.

"Well, well!" said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet. He
was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of sunshine
and good-humour. "Why, how are you, Carrie?" he said. "You're a daisy.
Where have you been?"

Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.

"I've been out home," she said.

"Well," he said, "I saw you across the street there. I thought it was
you. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?"

"I'm all right," said Carrie, smiling.

Drouet looked her over and saw something different.

"Well," he said, "I want to talk to you. You're not going anywhere in
particular, are you?"

"Not just now," said Carrie.

"Let's go up here and have something to eat. George! but I'm glad to see
you again."

She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after and
cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air of
holding back.

"Well," he said, as he took her arm--and there was an exuberance of
good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her
heart.

They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room, which
was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine and
substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the window,
where the busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved the changing
panorama of the street--to see and be seen as he dined.

"Now," he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, "what
will you have?"

Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed her
without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things she
saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her attention.
"Half broiled spring chicken--seventy-five. Sirloin steak with
mushrooms--one twenty-five." She had dimly heard of these things, but it
seemed strange to be called to order from the list.

"I'll fix this," exclaimed Drouet. "Sst! waiter."

That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,
approached, and inclined his ear.

"Sirloin with mushrooms," said Drouet. "Stuffed tomatoes."

"Yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head.

"Hashed brown potatoes."

"Yassah."

"Asparagus."

"Yassah."

"And a pot of coffee."

Drouet turned to Carrie. "I haven't had a thing since breakfast. Just
got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you."

Carrie smiled and smiled.

"What have you been doing?" he went on. "Tell me all about yourself. How
is your sister?"

"She's well," returned Carrie, answering the last query.

He looked at her hard.

"Say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?"

Carrie nodded.

"Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? You don't look very well.
I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?"

"Working," said Carrie.

"You don't say so! At what?"

She told him.

"Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott--why, I know that house over here on
Fifth Avenue, isn't it? They're a close-fisted concern. What made you go
there?"

"I couldn't get anything else," said Carrie frankly.

"Well, that's an outrage," said Drouet. "You oughtn't to be working for
those people. Have the factory right back of the store, don't they?"

"Yes," said Carrie.

"That isn't a good house," said Drouet. "You don't want to work at
anything like that, anyhow."

He chatted on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things about
himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the waiter
returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes which had
been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of serving. He appeared
to great advantage behind the white napery and silver platters of the
table and displaying his arms with a knife and fork. As he cut the meat
his rings almost spoke. His new suit creaked as he stretched to reach
the plates, break the bread, and pour the coffee. He helped Carrie to
a rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his spirit to her body
until she was a new girl. He was a splendid fellow in the true popular
understanding of the term, and captivated Carrie completely.

That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way. She
felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the view
of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah, what was
it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to come in here and
dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains, dressed in such nice
clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine places. He seemed quite a
figure of a man, and she wondered at his friendship and regard for her.

"So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said. "What are
you going to do now?"

"Look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outside this
fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her eyes.

"Oh, no," said Drouet, "that won't do. How long have you been looking?"

"Four days," she answered.

"Think of that!" he said, addressing some problematical individual. "You
oughtn't to be doing anything like that. These girls," and he waved an
inclusion of all shop and factory girls, "don't get anything. Why, you
can't live on it, can you?"

He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had
scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie was
really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure was
evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet looked
at her and his thoughts reached home. She felt his admiration. It was
powerfully backed by his liberality and good-humour. She felt that she
liked him--that she could continue to like him ever so much. There was
something even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her
mind. Every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the
interchanging current of feeling would be fully connected.

"Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" he said,
hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide.

"Oh, I can't," she said.

"What are you going to do to-night?"

"Nothing," she answered, a little drearily.

"You don't like out there where you are, do you?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"What are you going to do if you don't get work?"

"Go back home, I guess."

There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow, the
influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an understanding of
each other without words--he of her situation, she of the fact that
he realised it. "No," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy
filling his mind for the time. "Let me help you. You take some of my
money."

"Oh, no!" she said, leaning back.

"What are you going to do?" he said.

She sat meditating, merely shaking her head.

He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some loose
bills in his vest pocket--greenbacks. They were soft and noiseless, and
he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in his hand.

"Come on," he said, "I'll see you through all right. Get yourself some
clothes."

It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now she
realised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck the
key-note. Her lips trembled a little.

She had her hand out on the table before her. They were quite alone in
their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it.

"Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me help you."

He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At this he held
it fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped the greenbacks he
had into her palm, and when she began to protest, he whispered:

"I'll loan it to you--that's all right. I'll loan it to you."

He made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie of affection
now. They went out, and he walked with her far out south toward Polk
Street, talking.

"You don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place,
abstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression.

"Come down and meet me to morrow," he said, "and we'll go to the
matinee. Will you?"

Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced.

"You're not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes and a
jacket."

She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would trouble
her when he was gone. In his presence, she was of his own hopeful,
easy-way-out mood.

"Don't you bother about those people out there," he said at parting.
"I'll help you."

Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out before
her to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was two soft, green,
handsome ten-dollar bills.




The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and
comprehended. When each individual realises for himself that this thing
primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due--that
it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped
privilege--many of our social, religious, and political troubles will
have permanently passed. As for Carrie, her understanding of the moral
significance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. The
old definition: "Money: something everybody else has and I must get,"
would have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she
now held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt
that she was immensely better off for the having of them. It was
something that was power in itself. One of her order of mind would
have been content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of
money, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that
in some cases it could have no value. Even then she would have had no
conception of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,
undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the
inability to use it.

The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt ashamed
in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so
dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket! Now she
would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She would get stockings,
too, and a skirt, and, and--until already, as in the matter of her
prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice the
purchasing power of her bills.

She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all the
world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the
fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart--out of a realisation
of her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young
man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in
the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl.
Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn
desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My God,
mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what was
considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about
it. There would have been no speculation, no philosophising. He had no
mental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. In
his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the
lamp. Deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and
baffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as
helpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if
you will, as she.

Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because
he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as
being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb
to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming
villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief
delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine
clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could
have hornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty
shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the
thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about among men,
a veritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of intellect,
no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in
one strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a Shakespeare
would have said "my merry child"; old, drinking Caryoe thought him
a clever, successful businessman. In short, he was as good as his
intellect conceived.

The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the
man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul with
ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of
friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught
the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens.
She has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored
fear of poisons. "He keepeth His creatures whole," was not written of
beasts alone. Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its
unwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of self-protection, strong in
all such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of
Drouet.

When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. By
George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that.
Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He would go around to
Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him feel light of foot as
he thought about her.

Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely
conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which
perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie
knew that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than this
point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think of no
way of explaining.

"How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day.

Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and
say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be
in the line of her feelings at least. So instead of complaining when she
felt so good, she said:

"I have the promise of something."

"Where?"

"At the Boston Store."

"Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie.

"Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie disliking to draw out
a lie any longer than was necessary.

Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with
her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of
Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.

"If you shouldn't get it--" she paused, troubled for an easy way.

"If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home."

Minnie saw her chance.

"Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow."

The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep
her any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not blame
Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she was
glad she had Drouet's money. "Yes," she said after a few moments, "I
thought of doing that."

She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the
antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She
knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious
city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested
its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life
out there--she almost exclaimed against the thought.

She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What
could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would
need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want
to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she explain where she
even got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy.

She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning, Drouet
would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't be. The
Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet she
did not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on her
getting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful. She
began to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all
so clear when she was with Drouet. Now it was all so tangled, so
hopeless--much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance
of aid in her hand which she could not use.

Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have had
another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money
back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and hunt
for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and tell him. At this
decision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress.

Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some
relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep
away all thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a
wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing it
was to have. How plenty of it would clear away all these troubles.

In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision
to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket,
after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least
shade less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the
thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank.
What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so
often. It would be the same old story. She walked on and on, and finally
did go into one place, with the old result. She came out feeling that
luck was against her. It was no use.

Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great
Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about its long window
display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts, she who
was so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and get
her new things. Now for relief from distress; she thought she would go
in and see. She would look at the jackets.

There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state
in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by
desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. When Carrie
began wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this
mood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high
opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery,
where before she had hurried on. Her woman's heart was warm with desire
for them. How would she look in this, how charming that would make her!
She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted
the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. If she would
only make up her mind, she could have one of those now. She lingered in
the jewelry department. She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins,
the chains. What would she not have given if she could have had them
all! She would look fine too, if only she had some of these things.

The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store,
she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with
large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. Still
she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would
like better. She went about among the glass cases and racks where these
things were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she thought
of was the proper one. All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading
herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling
to herself the actual condition. At last the noon hour was dangerously
near, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return the money.

Drouet was on the corner when she came up.

"Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the shoes?"

Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way,
but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.

"I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me. Let's
go over here to Partridge's."

Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the points
that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him.

"Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here," and
Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off
State Street, in Monroe.

"I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled in
a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear those
things out there. They--they wouldn't know where I got them."

"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"

"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.

"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell
you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you
rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?"

Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be
convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if
he could. "Why are you going home?" he asked.

"Oh, I can't get anything here."

"They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.

"They can't," said Carrie.

"I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take care
of you."

Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it
sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her
own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and
sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.

"What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by the
words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. "There
isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room
here and some clothes, and then you can do something."

Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was,
the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An elegant
coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its
upholstered depths a young lady.

"What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no subtle
undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing at
all of the things he thought worth while.

Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could do. They
would be expecting her to go home this week.

Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.

"Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it.
I'll loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can get
yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you."

Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt more
than ever the helplessness of her case.

"If I could only get something to do," she said.

"Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if you go
away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get you a
nice room? I won't bother you--you needn't be afraid. Then, when you get
fixed up, maybe you could get something."

He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She
was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no doubt of that. She seemed
to have some power back of her actions. She was not like the common run
of store-girls. She wasn't silly.

In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he--more taste. It was
a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression
and loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head
unconsciously in a dainty way.

"Do you think I could get something?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'll help
you."

She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.

"Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go over here to Partridge's and
you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room for you.
You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show to-night."

Carrie shook her head.

"Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You don't need
to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there."

She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.

"Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said.

Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of
new things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the
influence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme
proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like the
one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand it
seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by
accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the
improvement. She looked quite smart.

"That's the thing," he said.

Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as
she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.

"That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it."

"It's nine dollars," said Carrie.

"That's all right--take it," said Drouet.

She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked
if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back
and the purchase was closed.

From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was fitted
for shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked,
said, "Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of
returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair
of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings.

"To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt."

In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper
she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing
hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since she had not
done these, there was a way out.

Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed
Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister." He
carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the
selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will be here
in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased.

When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He talked in
the same general way as if they were out in the street. Carrie left her
things.

"Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?"

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to leave them so."

He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm
afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked
with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the
flat.

"Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you get along."

She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her about
a little and then help her get something. He really imagined that he
would. He would be out on the road and she could be working.

"Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get
whatever you want and come away."

She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come
out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at
half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her
determination was hardened.

"So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story of the
Boston Store.

Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she answered.

"I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie.

Carrie said nothing.

When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He washed
in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a
little nervous. The strain of her own plans were considerable, and the
feeling that she was not welcome here was strong.

"Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.

"No."

He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have
her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that was all.
Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring.

Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved
to know that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson
particularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became
of her.

After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb
her, and wrote a little note.

"Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going to stay
in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be all
right."

In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped
Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said:

"I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could scarcely
prevent her voice from trembling.

Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.

"Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said.

"Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this."

She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little bedroom,
wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under Minnie's
hair-brush.

When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and wondered what
they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her deed affected
her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up the lighted
step, and then affected to stroll up the street. When she reached the
corner she quickened her pace.

As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.

"Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked.

"Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more."

He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to
poke his finger at it.

Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.

"Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him.
"Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car."




Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored
man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is still in a middle
stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by
instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason.
On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him aligned by nature with
the forces of life--he is born into their keeping and without thought he
is protected. We see man far removed from the lairs of the jungles,
his innate instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his
free-will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and afford
him perfect guidance.

He is becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he
is still too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast, the forces
of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yet wholly learned
to align himself with the forces. In this intermediate stage he
wavers--neither drawn in harmony with nature by his instincts nor yet
wisely putting himself into harmony by his own free-will. He is even as
a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his
will and now by his instincts, erring with one, only to retrieve by
the other, falling by one, only to rise by the other--a creature of
incalculable variability. We have the consolation of knowing that
evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that cannot fail.
He will not forever balance thus between good and evil. When this jangle
of free-will instinct shall have been adjusted, when perfect under
standing has given the former the power to replace the latter entirely,
man will no longer vary. The needle of understanding will yet point
steadfast and unwavering to the distinct pole of truth.

In Carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--instinct
and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She
followed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than she
drew.

When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled wonder
and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow, or love,
she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of that?"

"What?" said Hanson.

"Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else."

Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed
and looked at the note. The only indication of his thoughts came in
the form of a little clicking sound made by his tongue; the sound some
people make when they wish to urge on a horse.

"Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly aroused.

"I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she has gone
and done it."

Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.

"Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done."

"Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before him,
"what can you do?"

Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the
possibilities in such cases.

"Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!"

At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5 A.M.,
that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in
her new room, alone.

Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it.
She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of luxury.
She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering
whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet would do.
That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a peradventure. He could
not help what he was going to do. He could not see clearly enough to
wish to do differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old
pursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Carrie as surely
as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least
rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far
he was evil and sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might
have would be rudimentary, you may be sure.

The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her chamber. He
was the same jolly, enlivening soul.

"Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to
breakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day."

Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes.

"I wish I could get something to do," she said.

"You'll get that all right," said Drouet. "What's the use worrying right
now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you."

"I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully.

"Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they look
fine. Put on your jacket."

Carrie obeyed.

"Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set of it
at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. "What
you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast."

Carrie put on her hat.

"Where are the gloves?" he inquired.

"Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.

"Now, come on," he said.

Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.

It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much alone.
She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours
with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought her a nice skirt and
shirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessaries of
toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror
convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was
pretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty.
She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill
of power. Drouet was so good.

They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was
hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for
the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable
distance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up cold, and out of her
window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading
light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. A long,
thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off
sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way
brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked
from their front window in December days at home. She paused and wrung
her little hands.

"What's the matter?" said Drouet.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling.

He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her
arm.

"Come on," he said gently, "you're all right."

She turned to slip on her jacket.

"Better wear that boa about your throat to night."

They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The lights
in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. The arc
lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows
of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty
breaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng bumped and jostled.
Light overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down.
Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering,
laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity.

Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were looking
out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were faded and
loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby.

Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those who
worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not quite
sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if some great
tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came
back. She actually started. Drouet didn't notice until Carrie bumped
into a pedestrian.

"You must be thinking," he said.

They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie
immensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain
imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent
people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine
ladies made her stare.

"Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where
ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling,
lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips.
"Let's see."

"Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort
of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven."

"Isn't it fine?" said Carrie.

"Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery and
gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up, her even
teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. As they were
moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!" They were right
where the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in
two ladies.

"You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet.

Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. They
stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. Just a
shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but there was no
household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon
her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They
will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that
are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he
has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little
scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of
being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience,
the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. If the
digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough
to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory
thing. "Now, bless me," says such a mind, "I have done my duty," when,
as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once
again.

Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she
would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with
considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the
fine, invisible passion which was emanating from Drouet, the food, the
still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. She was
again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence.

"Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going."

They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently
met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which
followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way of touching her hand
in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He touched it now as
he spoke of going.

They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was now
bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few
open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they
strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small information. He
had Carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as he explained. Once in a
while, after some witticism, he would look down, and his eyes would meet
hers. At last they came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first
one, her head now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it
genially. He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly musing.

At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long evening
of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward position under her
side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene
floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she and Carrie were somewhere
beside an old coal-mine. She could see the tall runway and the heap
of earth and coal cast out. There was a deep pit, into which they were
looking; they could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall
disappeared in vague shadows. An old basket, used for descending, was
hanging there, fastened by a worn rope.

"Let's get in," said Carrie.

"Oh, no," said Minnie.

"Yes, come on," said Carrie.

She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she
had swung over and was going down.

"Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back"; but Carrie was far down now
and the shadow had swallowed her completely.

She moved her arm.

Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters she
had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something that
reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked about,
and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip of the
encroaching water.

"Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther out. She
seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her.

"Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far away, and
the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away suffering as
though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly sad than she
had ever been in life.

It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious
phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with
the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was slipping away
somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen
her falling.

"Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson, disturbed, and
shaking her by the shoulder.

"Wha--what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily.

"Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You're talking in your sleep."

A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's, spruce in
dress and manner.

"Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.

Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. "When
do you go out on the road again?" he inquired.

"Pretty soon," said Drouet.

"Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood.

"Well, I've been busy," said Drouet.

They talked some few minutes on general topics.

"Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to come
out some evening."

"Out where?" inquired Hurstwood.

"Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling.

Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile
hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way,
and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "Certainly; glad to."

"We'll have a nice game of euchre."

"May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood. "Certainly,"
said Drouet. "I'll introduce you."

 After receiving Carrie's letter, Drouet puts thoughts of her aside. He goes to Fitzgerald and Moy's, an upscale saloon frequented by the Chicago's upper class, to pass the evening. Drouet is on friendly terms with George Hurstwood, the manager of the saloon, who rubs elbows with the important businessmen, politicians, and actors of Chicago. Drouet and Hurstwood chat about Drouet's employers and his latest trip. Drouet mentions that he "struck a little peach"--that is, met Carrie--"coming in on the train Friday. " Back at the apartment, Carrie irritates Hanson by informing him and Minnie that she hates her job. Carrie is disappointed that they offer no sympathy. Her board costs four dollars a week, and she has already seen enough to know that living with them will be gloomy and plodding. After dinner, she goes outside to stand on the stoop. This displeases Hanson, and he tells Minnie that her behavior looks bad. Carrie comes to realize that, after deducting the cost of living with Minnie and Hanson from her wage, she will not even be able to afford car fare. Carrie's second day at work is just as bad as the first. She thinks the other women are too common in their dress and their use of slang. Moreover, she dislikes the fact that they act so freely with the men in the factory. It bothers her that the men think that she is just like the other women; men on the street seem to be just as free with her. During the weekend, Minnie and Hanson take her to Garfield park, but Carrie is unhappy because she does not "look well enough." On Monday, she listens to the other women talk about their happy weekends with young men who took them out on the town. Carrie despairs at ever having enough money to have the things she wants. Winter arrives, and Carrie needs warmer clothing. Minnie allows her to keep some of her earnings for a hat. Carrie becomes too ill to work, so she loses her job. Hanson suggests that she go back home. During the fourth day of her unsuccessful search for another job, Carrie encounters Drouet on the street. He takes her to lunch. The high prices at the restaurant dismay Carrie, but Drouet orders a large meal for both of them. He learns that she has been ill and that she has been trying for several days to find another job. She states that she will probably have to leave Chicago and return home. She reluctantly accepts twenty dollars from Drouet to tide her over. He tells her to buy some new clothes and meet him for a matinee show the next day. Walking home, Carrie realizes she cannot buy clothing because she will have to explain to Minnie and Hanson where she got the money to pay for it. She resolves to return the money to Drouet. However, when they meet the next day he takes her to buy the clothing despite her protests. He also offers to rent a room for her so she can leave Minnie and Hanson's flat. She returns to the apartment and leaves a note for Minnie stating that she is going to live elsewhere in the city. Afterward, she leaves to meet Drouet under the pretense of going downstairs to stand on the stoop as usual. Carrie wonders anxiously whether she will be able to get a job. For several days, Drouet takes her out sight-seeing, to the theater, and out to eat. Her misgivings about leaving Minnie and Hanson are swept away. Minnie has a troubled dream that Carrie is slipping away from her toward some unknown danger. Drouet invites Hurstwood to his home one evening for a game of cards, wanting to introduce Hurstwood to Carrie because she has moved in with him.

