When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to thosedoubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of decision.She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her promise, orthat now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She went over thewhole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objectionsthat had not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument.She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that ofagreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married. Sheremembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it came to walkingaway from him without a word, she felt as if she were doing wrong. Now,she was comfortably situated, and to one who is more or less afraid ofthe world, this is an urgent matter, and one which puts up strange,uncanny arguments. "You do not know what will come. There are miserablethings outside. People go a-begging. Women are wretched. You never cantell what will happen. Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to whatyou have."

Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken afirm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on hispart, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from itsseat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass,and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This majesty ofpassion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it isusually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successfulmating.

Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the fireof youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. It wasstrong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on Carrie's part,we have seen. She might have been said to be imagining herself in love,when she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows from the fact thatin each exists a bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure ofbeing loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, isone of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and anatural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. Itpersuades them that they are in love.

Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms forherself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she nevertook the house-maid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one ofthe rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out.To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbedwas she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet putin appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited andfull of determination to know all about her relations with Hurstwood.Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong day,he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not foreseeserious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin.Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and lookingout.

"Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion andwondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes youhurry so?"

Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to whatcourse to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.

"When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.

"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?"

"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and Ithought you had gone out."

"So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk."

Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in suchmatters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the mostflagrant manner until at last she said:

"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking."

"Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude.

"Oh, nothing--nothing much."

"Well, then, what makes you look so?"

Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. Hehad laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the littletoilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe that thepretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory tohimself. He was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, afterall. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was ranklingin his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some sort,but he knew not what.

"Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly.

"Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie.

"Sure you did?" he asked.

"Yes, what makes you ask?"

She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drewherself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly.

"I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in themost useless manner.

Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. Shesaw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuitionrealised that there was no occasion for great alarm.

"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her prettyforehead. "You act so funny to-night."

"I feel funny," he answered.

They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plungeddesperately into his subject.

"What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.

"Me and Hurstwood--what do you mean?"

"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"

"A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you mean?"

"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came hereevery night."

"No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you that?"

She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did notcatch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room.He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself withdenials.

"Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?"

"Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came."

Drouet paused for a moment and thought.

"I know what you told me," he said finally.

He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.

"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," saidCarrie, recovering herself.

"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I wouldn'thave anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know."

"Who--who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.

"Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he wasdelivering a telling blow.

"Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed severalshades since this announcement was made. She looked within and withoutherself in a half-dazed way.

"Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out oforder and exceedingly incriminating.

"Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet.

Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a mostmiserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her whichwere anything but crumbling cowardice.

"I thought I told you," he added.

"No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. "Youdidn't do anything of the kind."

Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.

"I thought I did," he said.

Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to thewindow.

"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet in aninjured tone, "after all I've done for you."

"You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?"

Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings--shame atexposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's deception, themockery he had made of her. Now one clear idea came into her head. Hewas at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwoodout--Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? Never mindnow about Hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? Why hadn't hewarned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach ofconfidence and talking about what he had done for her!

"Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire hisremark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal."

"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me--that's what you'vedone. You've brought your old friends out here under false pretences.You've made me out to be--Oh," and with this her voice broke and shepressed her two little hands together tragically.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer quaintly.

"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. "No, ofcourse you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You couldn't havetold me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out wronguntil it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with yourinformation and your talk about what you have done."

Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was alivewith feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole bodysensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.

"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, butcertain that he was wronged.

"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward, that'swhat you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn't havethought of doing any such thing."

The drummer stared.

"I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with other men,anyway?"

"Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men--you know better than that. Idid go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't you bring himhere? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take meout. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn't togo with him and that he's a married man."

She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. Theknowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife.

"Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyesdry. "Oh, oh!"

"Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was away,"insisted Drouet.

"Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man'speculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would be toyour satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me--a plaything.Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do withyou at all. You can take your old things and keep them," and unfasteninga little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon the floorand began to move about as if to gather up the things which belonged toher.

By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He lookedat her in amazement, and finally said:

"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of thisthing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after all Idid for you."

"What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown backand her lips parted.

"I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around. "I'vegiven you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken youeverywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and moretoo."

Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so faras her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. Shehardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated. Shefelt that the drummer had injured her irreparably.

"Did I ask you to?" she returned.

"Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it."

"You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You standthere and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old things. I'llnot have them. You take them to-night and do what you please with them.I'll not stay here another minute."

"That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his ownapproaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk off. That'sjust like a woman. I take you when you haven't got anything, and thenwhen some one else comes along, why I'm no good. I always thought it'dcome out that way."

He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if hesaw no way of obtaining justice.

"It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else. Youhave been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate you, Itell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a big,insulting"--here she hesitated and used no word at all--"or you wouldn'ttalk that way."

She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over herlittle evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from thebands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, redcheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes werefull of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. She wasdistracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim orconclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the wholedifficulty would end.

"Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out, eh?You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood or youwouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't pull outfor me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you haven't doneme right."

"I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live with you.You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here."

"Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered.

Carrie walked over to the door.

"Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off.

"Let me out," she said.

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering out,he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.

Carrie merely pulled at the door.

The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She made onemore vain effort and then burst into tears.

"Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want to rushout for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay here now andbe quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay here any longer."

Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so overcomeshe could not speak.

"Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You can go ifyou want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, I don't wantto stop you."

He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the influenceof his plea.

"You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last.

Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loosefrom the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by thisthought, angered by that--her own injustice, Hurstwood's, Drouet's,their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of theworld outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility ofthis state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, theeffect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a massof jangling fibres--an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which coulddo absolutely nothing but drift.

"Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a newidea, and putting his hand upon her.

"Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchieffrom her eyes.

"Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until themonth's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to do.Eh?"

Carrie made no answer.

"You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up now.You can't go anywhere."

Still he got nothing for his words.

"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get out."

Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the window.

"Will you do that?" he asked.

Still no answer.

"Will you?" he repeated.

She only looked vaguely into the street.

"Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?"

"I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.

"Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking about it.It'll be the best thing for you."

Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer reasonably.She felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in her had notabated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was in a mosthelpless plight.

As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover. Now hisfeelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at losing Carrie,misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in some way or other, andyet his rights included the retaining of Carrie, the making her feel hererror.

"Will you?" he urged.

"Well, I'll see," said Carrie.

This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It lookedas if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get some way oftalking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouet aggrieved. Hepretended to take up the task of packing some things in a valise.

Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain soundthoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had she done?He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. Throughout thisargument he had said nothing very harsh. On the other hand, there wasHurstwood--a greater deceiver than he. He had pretended all thisaffection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. Oh,the perfidy of men! And she had loved him. There could be nothing morein that quarter. She would see Hurstwood no more. She would write himand let him know what she thought. Thereupon what would she do? Herewere these rooms. Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain. Evidentlythings could go on here somewhat as before, if all were arranged. Itwould be better than the street, without a place to lay her head.

All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collars andlaboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was in nohurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which wouldnot down. He could not think that the thing would end by his walking outof the room. There must be some way round, some way to make her own upthat he was right and she was wrong--to patch up a peace and shut outHurstwood for ever. Mercy, how he turned at the man's shamelessduplicity.

"Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that you'll tryand get on the stage?"

He was wondering what she was intending.

"I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie.

"If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in thatline."

She made no answer to this.

"Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me helpyou," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here."

Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.

"I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way."

He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on.

"Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time,"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?"

"Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You were toblame."

"No, I wasn't," he answered.

"Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever told me sucha story as that."

"But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on Drouet,anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her.

"I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn thepeace arrangement had taken.

"What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer,stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You might letme know where I stand, at least."

"I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whatever hashappened is your own fault."

"Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely andexperiencing a rush of feeling.

"Oh, stop!" said Carrie.

"Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed Drouet. "You may triflearound with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. You can tell meor not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer!"

He shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his valiseand snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat, which he hadlaid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out.

"You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as hereached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with ajerk and closed it equally vigorously.

Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything elseat this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly believeher senses--so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. It wasnot for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A real flame of loveis a subtle thing. It burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward tofairylands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often jealousy is thequality upon which it feeds.