Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was puttingthe finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when acommotion near the stage door caught her ear. It included a familiarvoice.

"Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda."

"You'll have to send in your card."

"Oh, come off! Here."

A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her dressing-roomdoor.

Carrie opened it.

"Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew thatwas you the moment I saw you."

Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.

"Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy! That'sall right, shake hands."

Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man'sexuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed. Thesame fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance.

"That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I paidhim. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great show. You doyour part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be passing to-nightand thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw your name on theprogramme, but I didn't remember it until you came on the stage. Then itstruck me all at once. Say, you could have knocked me down with afeather. That's the same name you used out there in Chicago, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance.

"I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been, anyhow?"

"Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She wasrather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?"

"Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now."

"Is that so?" said Carrie.

"Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch here."

"How nice!"

"Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet.

"About three years ago," said Carrie.

"You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it. I knewyou would, though. I always said you could act--didn't I?"

Carrie smiled.

"Yes, you did," she said.

"Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve so.You're taller, aren't you?"

"Me? Oh, a little, maybe."

He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was setjauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to avert.Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once andwithout modification.

"Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and thelike, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out to dinner withme; won't you? I've got a friend out here."

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an early engagementto-morrow."

"Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want tohave a good talk with you."

"No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I don'tcare for a late dinner."

"Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow."

"Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talk someother 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-naturedictated something better than this for one who had always liked her.

"You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of penancefor 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 thenbut newly erected.

"What time?"

"Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly.

The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight thatCarrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome asever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as towhether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked asvolubly 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 ofhis own career.

"I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed in oneplace. "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 sometime."

Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that theex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He imaginednot; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that Carrie had got ridof him--as well she ought, he thought.

"A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that," heobserved.

"Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.

"Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with hishand.

"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 hewould refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?

"Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten thousanddollars 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 thepapers."

"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 wasshining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered nowa hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he tookit on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind ofsorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over hishead 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 forhim. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into herlife again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. Howbeautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorfsetting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable.

"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" heasked.

Carrie smiled to think of it.

"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he addedruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and I weregoing to get along fine those days."

"You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least touch ofcoldness.

"Won't you let me tell you----"

"No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting ready forthe 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 tothe 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 spokeall of her. He thought himself hardly dealt with. Carrie, however, hadother 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 toface. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if hehad to send in word. At first she did not recognise the shabby, baggyfigure. 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 lurkedany feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, sheremembered 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. ForGod's sake, let me have a little money, will you?"

"Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort tomaintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you, anyhow?"

She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it--afive and two twos.

"I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting herexcessive 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 thestrain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.

"Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked, hardlyknowing what to do. "Where are you living?"

"Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's no usetrying to tell you here. I'm all right now."

He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries--so much better hadfate dealt with her.

"Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't bother youany more."

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

For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to wearpartially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen byher. His attentions seemed out of place.

"I'm out," was her reply to the boy.

So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that shewas becoming an interesting figure in the public eye--she was so quietand reserved.

Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. Asecond summer season did not seem to promise well here.

"How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager, oneafternoon.

"It might be just the other way," said Carrie.

"I think we'll go in June," he answered.

In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouetwere left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, andexclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends ofhis moustache. At last he reached a conclusion--the old days had gonefor good.

"She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did notbelieve this.

Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. Asmall job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging,sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him overmore days. Resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, inthe press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest.Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in anew play; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about thecity, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazednightly upon the crowded street of amusements. Drouet saw it, but didnot venture in.

About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little successin the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of course,he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was nothingresponsive between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood,until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he did not professto understand, and refrained from comment.

With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly.

"She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do betterthan that."

One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a veryfriendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keeninterest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was becauseat that time he had represented something which she did not have; butthis she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary feelingthat she was now blessed with much of which he would approve. As amatter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. Hethought she could have done better, by far.

"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering herinterest in that form of art.

"No," she answered; "I haven't, so far."

He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she hadfailed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though."

"I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of dispositionthat would do well in comedy-drama."

It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then, soclearly in his mind?

"Why?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in yournature."

Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with herthat she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal wassounding.

"I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond allconcealment.

"I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy."

This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, butlater they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staringat the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard workhad given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for Carrieto know the thing in it which appealed to her.

"All alone?" she said.

"I was listening to the music."

"I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in theinventor.

Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while hesat.

"Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening.

"Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention wascalled.

"Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him.

They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling,only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as inthe old days.

"I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved by theinexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always makes mefeel as if I wanted something--I----"

"Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel."

Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition,expressing her feelings so frankly.

"You ought not to be melancholy," he said.

He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observationwhich, however, accorded with their feelings.

"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we canoccupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our handsover the far-off things."

The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, asif to rest himself.

"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He waslooking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large, sympatheticeyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment.

"Perhaps I shall," she returned.

"That's your field," he added.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there issomething about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort ofwork."

Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, lonelinessdeserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical.

"It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I rememberthinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something peculiarabout your mouth. I thought you were about to cry."

"How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heartcraved.

"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I saw itagain. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face muchthis same character. It's in the depth of them, I think."

Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.

"You probably are not aware of it," he added.

She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equalto this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the door to anew desire.

She had cause to ponder over this until they met again--several weeks ormore. It showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which hadfilled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage and thereafter, fora long time. Why had she lost it?

"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if youhad a more dramatic part. I've studied it out----"

"What is it?" said Carrie.

"Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in yourface is one that comes out in different things. You get the same thingin a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply. It's a thingthe world likes to see, because it's a natural expression of itslonging."

Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.

"The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on. "Mostpeople are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend uponothers. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their desires forthem in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play. Sometimesnature does it in a face--it makes the face representative of alldesire. That's what has happened in your case."

He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyesthat she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look wassomething which represented the world's longing. She took it to heart asa creditable thing, until he added:

"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have thisthing. It is no credit to you--that is, I mean, you might not have hadit. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must dosomething with it."

"What?" asked Carrie.

"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy andsuch a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make yourpowers endure."

Carrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed her that hercomedy success was little or nothing.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and inyour nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it andlive to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look willleave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act willdisappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes care ofthat."

He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimesbecame enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something inCarrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.

"I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.

"If I were you," he said, "I'd change."

The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubledover it in her rocking-chair for days.

"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," sheeventually remarked to Lola.

"Oh, why not?" said the latter.

"I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play."

"What put that idea in your head?"

"Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so."

Still, she did nothing--grieving. It was a long way to this betterthing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity andlonging.