Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he hadlaid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floatingaround having what he considered a gay time. On this particular eveninghe dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which occupieda basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visited the resortof Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the imposing FederalBuilding. There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass ofplain 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 thewhole must be.

Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He onlycraved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to hima part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble walls and floor,its profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and, aboveall, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional men, seemedto him the proper place for a successful man to go. He loved fineclothes, good eating, and particularly the company and acquaintanceshipof successful men. When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction tohim 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 onlya few tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction,for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some richyoung "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz ofpopular commonplace conversation.

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

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

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

When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straightenhimself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had anyvanity, 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 anotheryard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon from aChicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented with a blazeof incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The floors were ofbrightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of rich, dark, polishedwood, which reflected the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gavethe place a very sumptuous appearance. The long bar was a blaze oflights, polished wood-work, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancybottles. 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 Fitzgeraldand Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-knownman about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightlyunder forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and asolid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes,his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of hisimportance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being someone worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit theAdams Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar.

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

For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suitsof imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, astriking 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 andengraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a "Well, oldfellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general runof successful characters about town, and it was part of his success todo so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship,which improved from the "How do you do?" addressed to thefifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attachés, who, by longfrequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the "Why,old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those noted or richindividuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was aclass, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom hecould not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he wasprofessionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, payingthem the deference which would win their good feeling without in theleast compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the lastplace, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yetremarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score ofgood-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converselongest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time oncein a while--to go to the races, the theatres, the sportingentertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, hadhis wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house onthe North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptableindividual of our great American upper class--the first grade below theluxuriously rich.

Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy appearancepleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling salesman--and notone of many years at that--but the firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Companywas a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood knewCaryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, incompany with several others, when the conversation was general. Drouethad what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, andcould tell a good story when the occasion required. He could talk raceswith Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning himself and hisexperiences with women, and report the state of trade in the citieswhich he visited, and so managed to make himself almost invariablyagreeable. To-night he was particularly so, since his report to thecompany had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had beensatisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.

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

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

"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 whichhalf displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "Whatare you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket andtie, 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 lastweek."

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

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

"What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen himaround 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. Barelycomes 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 othermembers all there."

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

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

To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn ofmind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem ananomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the moths,in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Suchconversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of thescene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers wouldchoose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, thatpoliticians would not gather here in company to discuss anything saveformalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely bejustified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequentthese more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, thefact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rubelbows, must be explained upon some grounds. It must be that a strangebundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious socialinstitution or it would not be.

Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by hisdesire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here droppedin because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, thecompany, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might take it,after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things whichthey satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No evil could comeout of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. The worsteffect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in thematerial-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarlysplendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called thefault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind.That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate themore expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anythingsave the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove theelement so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there wouldnot be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which wouldremain. The pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion arelooked upon is proof of this assertion.

Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedycompany, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless,wandering mental action which it represents--the love of light and showand finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternalstars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweepingnight winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glitteringnight-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose ofpleasure.

"See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at agentleman 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 toit. 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 ofthe time.

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

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

"Yes, I will," said Drouet.

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

"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," remarkedDrouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call onher before I go away."

"Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.

"Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouetconfidentially, 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 ofplaces, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrowlot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, herunfolding fate.