The Essential Works of Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

he bowed politely, while Carrie flushed, “draws attention to the hotel, and — although you may not believe it — patrons.”

      “Oh, yes,” returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious proposition in her mind.

      “Now,” continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, “I want to arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything will do for the summer — a mere figure — anything that you think you could afford to pay.”

      Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.

      “You can come today or tomorrow — the earlier the better — and we will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms — the very best we have.”

      “You’re very kind,” said Carrie, touched by the agent’s extreme affability. “I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what is right, however. I shouldn’t want to — ”

      “You need not trouble about that at all,” interrupted Mr. Withers. “We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates.”

      The speaker paused.

      “Suppose you come and look at the rooms,” he added.

      “I’d be glad to,” said Carrie, “but I have a rehearsal this morning.”

      “I did not mean at once,” he returned. “Any time will do. Would this afternoon be inconvenient?”

      “Not at all,” said Carrie.

      Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.

      “I have a room-mate,” she added, “who will have to go wherever I do. I forgot about that.”

      “Oh, very well,” said Mr. Withers, blandly. “It is for you to say whom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself.”

      He bowed and backed toward the door.

      “At four, then, we may expect you?”

      “Yes,” said Carrie.

      “I will be there to show you,” and so Mr. Withers withdrew.

      After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola. “Did they really?” exclaimed the latter, thinking of the Wellington as a group of managers. “Isn’t that fine? Oh, jolly! It’s so swell. That’s where we dined that night we went with those two Cushing boys. Don’t you know?”

      “I remember,” said Carrie.

      “Oh, it’s as fine as it can be.”

      “We’d better be going up there,” observed Carrie later in the afternoon.

      The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and bath — a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds, white ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week.

      “Oh, lovely!” exclaimed Lola, walking about.

      “It is comfortable,” said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and looking down into crowded Broadway.

      The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and incandescent lights arranged in three places.

      “Do you find these satisfactory?” observed Mr. Withers.

      “Oh, very,” answered Carrie.

      “Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door.”

      Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often dreamed of occupying.

      “I guess we’d better move right away, don’t you think so?” she observed to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.

      “Oh, by all means,” said the latter.

      The next day her trunks left for the new abode.

      Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her dressing-room door.

      Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of surprise.

      “Tell her I’ll be right out,” she said softly. Then, looking at the card, added: “Mrs. Vance.”

      “Why, you little sinner,” the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie coming toward her across the now vacant stage. “How in the world did this happen?”

      Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her friend’s manner. You would have thought that the long separation had come about accidentally.

      “I don’t know,” returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.

      “Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just like you, and I said: ‘Well, now, I will go right down there and see.’ I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?”

      “Oh, very well,” returned Carrie. “How have you been?”

      “Fine. But aren’t you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking about you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon.”

      “Oh, nonsense,” said Carrie, blushing. “You know I’d be glad to see you.”

      “Well, anyhow, here you are. Can’t you come up and take dinner with me now? Where are you stopping?”

      “At the Wellington,” said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of pride in the acknowledgment.

      “Oh, are you?” exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without its proper effect.

      Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she surmised.

      “Oh, I don’t think I can,” said Carrie, “to-night. I have so little time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won’t you come and dine with me?”

      “I’d be delighted, but I can’t to-night,” said Mrs. Vance studying Carrie’s fine appearance. The latter’s good fortune made her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the others eyes. “I promised faithfully to be home at six.” Glancing at the small gold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: “I must be going, too. Tell me when you’re coming up, if at all.”

      “Why, any time you like,” said Carrie.

      “Well, tomorrow then. I’m living at the Chelsea now.”

      “Moved again?” exclaimed Carrie, laughing.

      “Yes. You know I can’t stay six months in one place. I just have to move. Remember now — half-past five.”

      “I won’t forget,” said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this