Chapter: 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."

 That same evening Carrie returns home from her first day of work. To Minnie and Sven's anxious questioning, she answers that she does not like her job because it is too hard. Minnie feels sympathetic toward Carrie but hides her feelings because she knows how much Sven is counting on the extra money Carrie could contribute to the household. After supper Carrie changes her clothes and stands on the steps of the apartment building, half expecting to see Drouet. The life on the street interests Carrie. She never tires of wondering where its streetcars are going or how the people on them entertain themselves. Her imagination constantly takes her to places of delight, full of handsome, well-dressed, and wealthy people enjoying themselves. The daily work at the factory continues in its hard, dull routine. At the end of a week Carrie hands over four dollars to Minnie, keeping fifty cents for herself. Like a flower that is transplanted, Carrie has trouble adjusting to the climate. Winter sweeps over the city before Carrie can save enough money to buy warm clothes. She is taken ill and must rest in bed for three days. Hanson wants Carrie to return to her family before she becomes a burden. After she recovers from her cold, Carrie searches four full days for a new position until, quite by accident, she meets Drouet. Surprised to see her, he buys her a sumptuous steak in an expensive restaurant. To Carrie, Drouet seems the very picture of substantial living. Well-dressed and outspoken, he impresses Carrie with his knowledge of faraway places and with his easy manners. Carrie nevertheless refuses to join him at the theater because she cannot stay out late, but she does agree to meet him the next day. Drouet forces upon Carrie a "loan" of twenty dollars for her to buy herself new shoes and a jacket. Carrie feels "as though a great arm had slipped out before her to draw off trouble." In Drouet's presence Carrie does not even think that Minnie will wonder where the new clothes came from, but as soon as she leaves Drouet she begins to worry. The narrator begins Chapter 7 with one of his frequent discussions on the meaning of money. What Carrie does not understand, a fault she has in common with almost all of humanity, is that money should be paid out as "honestly stored energy," not as a "usurped privilege." Carrie's definition of money would be simple and straightforward "something everybody else has and I must get." As she walks away from Drouet Carrie feels ashamed that she had been weak enough to take his money, but since her needs were so desperate, she is glad to have the power of privilege that "two soft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills" can bring. As usual, her visions of what she can purchase -- a nice new jacket, a pair of button shoes, stockings, a skirt -- far exceed the reality. Carrie fully realizes that unlike the stranger who accosted her in the street some days before, Drouet is of good heart and intends no evil. There is nothing in his character to trigger her instinct to fly away from him. His overtures do not arouse her sense of self-preservation. When she reaches home, Carrie's good feelings are somewhat dampened because she can imagine no way to explain her good fortune to Minnie. Ironically trapped, having money and not being able to spend it, Carrie resolves to return the money to Drouet the next day. The next morning she returns to the wholesale district and wanders about, trying only one place for work. Carrie enters a large department store, where she is torn between material desire and moral conscience. Indecision continues until it is time for her to meet Drouet. Drouet takes charge of things and causes Carrie to buy a new jacket, button shoes, and stockings, to which he adds a purse and gloves. Then he helps her find a furnished room where she can deposit the new finery and even move in herself if she desires. In the evening Carrie returns to the flat for dinner with Minnie and Sven. After dinner she writes a note explaining that she is leaving them but she is not returning to Columbia City. She will remain in Chicago and look for work. She then announces that she will stand outside for the last time. Nearby Drouet is waiting for her; together the couple leave the neighborhood in a streetcar.

