The Essential Works of Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

anyhow.”

      “Not to-night,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll have a talk some other time.”

      As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed. Good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had always liked her.

      “You come around to the hotel tomorrow,” she said, as sort of penance for error. “You can take dinner with me.”

      “All right,” said Drouet, brightening. “Where are you stopping?”

      “At the Waldorf,” she answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then but newly erected.

      “What time?”

      “Well, come at three,” said Carrie, pleasantly.

      The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as volubly as ever.

      “They put on a lot of lugs here, don’t they?” was his first remark.

      “Yes; they do,” said Carrie.

      Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed account of his own career.

      “I’m going to have a business of my own pretty soon,” he observed in one place. “I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars.”

      Carrie listened most good-naturedly.

      “Say,” he said, suddenly; “where is Hurstwood now?”

      Carrie flushed a little.

      “He’s here in New York, I guess,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for some time.”

      Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that Carrie had got rid of him — as well she ought, he thought. “A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that,” he observed.

      “Like what?” said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.

      “Oh, you know,” and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his hand.

      “No, I don’t,” she answered. “What do you mean?”

      “Why that affair in Chicago — the time he left.”

      “I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Carrie. Could it be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood’s flight with her?

      “Oho!” said Drouet, incredulously. “You knew he took ten thousand dollars with him when he left, didn’t you?”

      “What!” said Carrie. “You don’t mean to say he stole money, do you?”

      “Why,” said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, “you knew that, didn’t you?”

      “Why, no,” said Carrie. “Of course I didn’t.”

      “Well, that’s funny,” said Drouet. “He did, you know. It was in all the papers.”

      “How much did you say he took?” said Carrie.

      “Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though.”

      Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time.

      At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all desirable.

      “Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?” he asked.

      Carrie smiled to think of it.

      “I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad,” he added ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; “I thought you and I were going to get along fine those days.”

      “You mustn’t talk that way,” said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of coldness.

      “Won’t you let me tell you — ”

      “No,” she answered, rising. “Besides, it’s time I was getting ready for the theatre. I’ll have to leave you. Come, now.” “Oh, stay a minute,” pleaded Drouet. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

      “No,” said Carrie, gently.

      Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her to the elevator and, standing there, said:

      “When do I see you again?”

      “Oh, some time, possibly,” said Carrie. “I’ll be here all summer. Good-night!”

      The elevator door was open.

      “Good-night!” said Drouet, as she rustled in.

      Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived, because she was now so far off. The merry frou-frou of the place spoke all of her. He thought himself hardly dealt with. Carrie, however, had other thoughts.

      That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the Casino, without observing him.

      The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face to face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise the shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger.

      “Carrie,” he half whispered, “can I have a few words with you?”

      She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the money.

      “Why, George,” she said; “what’s the matter with you?”

      “I’ve been sick,” he answered. “I’ve just got out of the hospital. For God’s sake, let me have a little money, will you?”

      “Of course,” said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to maintain her composure. “But what’s the matter with you, anyhow?”

      She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it — a five and two twos.

      “I’ve been sick, I told you,” he said, peevishly, almost resenting her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a source.

      “Here,” she said. “It’s all I have with me.”

      “All right,” he answered, softly. “I’ll give it back to you some day.”

      Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt the strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.

      “Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter with you?” she asked, hardly knowing what to do. “Where are you living?”

      “Oh, I’ve got a room down in the Bowery,” he answered. “There’s no use trying to tell you here. I’m all right now.”

      He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries — so much better had fate dealt with her.

      “Better go on in,” he said. “I’m much obliged, but I won’t bother you any more.”

      She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward the east.