The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas, had notforgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called onher, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her address.True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long as shestill lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled to moveinto Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indicationof reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding thenecessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenient method, shesorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely.The latter wondered at this strange silence, thought Carrie must haveleft the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughlysurprised to encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had goneshopping. Carrie was there for the same purpose.

"Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance,"where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've beenwondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I----"

"I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. Ofall times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'm livingdown town here. I've been intending to come and see you. Where are youliving now?"

"In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off SeventhAvenue--218. Why don't you come and see me?"

"I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I know Iought to. It's a shame. But you know----"

"What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance.

"Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West."

"Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time."

"Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while notingthat Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address, too," sheadded to herself. "They must be hard up."

Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow.

"Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a store.

When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. Heseemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard wasat least four days old.

"Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?"

She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation wasbecoming unbearable.

Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner:

"Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?"

"No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man."

Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more.

"I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time.

"Did, eh?" he answered.

"They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look so nice."

"Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returnedHurstwood. "He's got a soft job."

Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look ofinfinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.

"She said she thought she'd call here some day."

"She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood, witha kind of sarcasm.

The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side.

"Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude. "PerhapsI didn't want her to come."

"She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep up withher pace unless they've got a lot of money."

"Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard."

"He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding theinference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll happen.He may get down like anybody else."

There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye seemedto be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat.His own state seemed a thing apart--not considered.

This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness andindependence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of otherpeople, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him.Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search,he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:

"I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things coming tome if I want to go after them."

It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave,and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with anydefinite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt just right forbeing outside and doing something.

On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker roomsdown town. A few acquaintances he had in down-town resorts and about theCity Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendlycommonplaces.

He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. Many afriendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time whenthat sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game--not the all in all.Now, he thought of playing.

"I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice."

It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him severaltimes before he acted upon it.

The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street,near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several games weregoing. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quitelarge for the ante involved.

"Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulledup a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study ofhim which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.

Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collectionwithout progression or pairs. The pot was opened.

"I pass," he said.

On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals didfairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a fewdollars to the good.

The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. Thistime he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better handacross the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a politicalhanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwoodwas surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets camewith a _sang-froid_ which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwoodbegan to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cooldemeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic studentsof the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather thanexterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardlythought that this man had something better and would stay to the end,drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far.Still, he hoped to win much--his hand was excellent. Why not raise itfive more?

"I raise you three," said the youth.

"Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.

"Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.

"Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge,taking out a bill.

A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chipswere laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.

"Five again," said the youth.

Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now--very deep for him. Sixtydollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but thethought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He wouldnot trust to this fine hand any longer.

"I call," he said.

"A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards.

Hurstwood's hand dropped.

"I thought I had you," he said, weakly.

The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without firststopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.

"Three hundred and forty dollars," he said.

With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.

Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.

Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mildprotest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day, cominghome, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.

"What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie.

"What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked.

"Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Some onemight call."

"Who?" he said.

"Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie.

"She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly.

This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.

"Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should thinkhe would be ashamed of himself."

The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. Itwas on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplacehall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent and agonisingdistress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking thatthe knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lostvoice of youth and pride spoke in him.

"Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?"

"How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes.His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether toinvite her in or not.

"Is your wife at home?" she inquired.

"No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be backshortly."

"No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm reallyvery much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but Icouldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me."

"I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief ather going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he satin the chair afterwards, and thought.

Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vancegoing away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure.

"Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood.

"Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance."

"Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair.

This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen.

"If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door."

"Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness."What did she have to say?"

"Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay."

"And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long reserve.

"What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming, did I?"

"You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she was coming.I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I thinkthis is just terrible."

"Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? You couldn'tassociate with her, anyway. They've got too much money."

"Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely.

"Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'dcommitted----"

Carrie interrupted:

"It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault isit? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate with.Why don't you get out and look for work?"

This was a thunderbolt in camp.

"What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay the rent,don't I? I furnish the----"

"Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was nothingelse in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't done a thingfor three months except sit around and interfere here. I'd like to knowwhat you married me for?"

"I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone.

"I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered.

"Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that out of yourhead. You talk as though you didn't know."

Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed itwas all legal and binding enough.

"What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What did youforce me to run away with you for?"

Her voice became almost a sob.

"Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did."

"Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh, oh!" andshe hurried into the front room.

Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for him,both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and thenwent for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie; sheceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first, withthe faintest alarm, of being left without money--not of losing him,though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the top ofthe wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, andshe knew he had gone.

After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked outthe window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat,toward Sixth Avenue.

The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth Streetto Union Square.

"Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me to getout and look for work."

He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which toldhim that she was right.

"What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he thought."Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was thinking."

He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighth Street.She was always a swell-looker; and he had tried to put on the air ofbeing worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think she hadcaught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his distress.

"The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour.

It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in tears.There would be no dinner that night.

"What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shamefrom himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet."

He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels,decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and makehimself comfortable there.

He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of thebest New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It did nottrouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of suchextravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to hisease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his cravingfor comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the morrow--he could notstand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. Likethe certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon beingwithout a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doingit.

Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried himback to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house, playing apiano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading.

His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and then,seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickeningoutside, wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie would be up. No,he would not go back there this evening. He would stay out and knockaround as a man who was independent--not broke--well might. He bought acigar, and went outside on the corner where other individuals werelounging--brokers, racing people, thespians--his own flesh and blood. Ashe stood there, he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how heused to dispose of them. Many's the game he had had. This took him topoker.

"I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought, referring tohis loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened. I could havebluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what ailed me."

Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, andbegan to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffinga little harder.

"I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try my handto-night."

Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a coupleof hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made theirliving at this game, and a good living, too.

"They always had as much as I had," he thought.

So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as hehad in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused firstby the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, withcocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as hewould ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood--only a man arguingwith a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.

This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room ina better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing aninteresting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a while, hewinning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing moreinterested and determined on that account. At last the fascinating gametook a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on atrifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. To hisself-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it.

In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him.No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and againhe tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who werealmost reading his heart, so close was their observation.

"I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself. "I'll juststay with that fellow to the finish."

The result was that bidding began.

"I raise you ten."

"Good."

"Ten more."

"Good."

"Ten again."

"Right you are."

It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other manreally became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really didhave a stiff hand.

"I call," he said.

Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he had lostseventy-five dollars made him desperate.

"Let's have another pot," he said, grimly.

"All right," said the man.

Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took theirplaces. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on,neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last handlost twenty more. He was sick at heart.

At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. Thechill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked slowlywest, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the stairs andwent into his room as if there had been no trouble. It was his loss thatoccupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money.There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. He putit up and began to undress.

"I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said.

In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go outagain. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. Nowdesperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he livedlike a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a gentleman--which tookmoney. For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to saynothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. Then he camedown to cold, bitter sense again.

"The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thusindifferently three mornings later.

"He does?"

"Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.

Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse.

"It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.

He was nearing his last hundred dollars.