The Essential Works of Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with her.

      Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like treatment or she would know why.

      For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and opposition possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagles’ wings. He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. What was the night, after all, without her — what the day? She must and should be his.

      For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling since she had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet’s enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which concerned herself, with very little for that which affected his own gain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because her thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood’s passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered what he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the misery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was, all in all, exceedingly happy.

      On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning the event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouet himself was not talking so much OF as FOR her. He felt instinctively that, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in her regard.

      “I think,” he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next morning, preparatory to going down town, “that I’ll straighten out that little deal of mine this month and then we’ll get married. I was talking with Mosher about that yesterday.”

      “No, you won’t,” said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint power to jest with the drummer.

      “Yes, I will,” he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with the tone of one who pleads, “Don’t you believe what I’ve told you?”

      Carrie laughed a little.

      “Of course I do,” she answered.

      Drouet’s assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental observation, there was that in the things which had happened which made his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still with him, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voice which was new. She did not study him with eyes expressive of dependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of something which was coming. It coloured his feelings and made him develop those little attentions and say those little words which were mere forefendations against danger.

      Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her meeting with Hurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, and hastened down the stairs. At the corner she passed Drouet, but they did not see each other.

      The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into his house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, but found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up.

      “Hello,” he exclaimed, half to himself, “has Carrie gone?”

      “Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago.”

      “That’s strange,” thought Drouet. “She didn’t say a word to me. I wonder where she went?”

      He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, and finally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fair neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him.

      “What are you up to?” he said, smiling.

      “Just cleaning,” she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel about her hand.

      “Tired of it?”

      “Not so very.”

      “Let me show you something,” he said, affably, coming over and taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been issued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a picture of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of which could be changed by means of a revolving disk in the back, which showed red, yellow, green, and blue through little interstices made in the ground occupied by the umbrella top.

      “Isn’t that clever?” he said, handing it to her and showing her how it worked. “You never saw anything like that before.”

      “Isn’t it nice?” she answered.

      “You can have it if you want it,” he remarked.

      “That’s a pretty ring you have,” he said, touching a commonplace setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her.

      “Do you think so?”

      “That’s right,” he answered, making use of a pretence at examination to secure her finger. “That’s fine.”

      The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his. She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest against the window-sill.

      “I didn’t see you for a long time,” she said, coquettishly, repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. “You must have been away.”

      “I was,” said Drouet.

      “Do you travel far?”

      “Pretty far — yes.”

      “Do you like it?”

      “Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while.”

      “I wish I could travel,” said the girl, gazing idly out of the window.

      “What has become of your friend, Mr. Hurstwood?” she suddenly asked, bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation, seemed to contain promising material.

      “He’s here in town. What makes you ask about him?”

      “Oh, nothing, only he hasn’t been here since you got back.”

      “How did you come to know him?”

      “Didn’t I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?”

      “Get out,” said the drummer, lightly. “He hasn’t called more than half a dozen times since we’ve been here.”

      “He hasn’t, eh?” said the girl, smiling. “That’s all you know about it.”

      Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as to whether she was joking or not.

      “Tease,” he said, “what makes you smile that way?”

      “Oh, nothing.”

      “Have you seen him recently?”

      “Not since you came back,” she laughed.

      “Before?”

      “Certainly.”

      “How often?”

      “Why, nearly every day.”

      She was a mischievous newsmonger,