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She was ignored by the males till midnight. Her husband called, "Suppose we could have some eats, Carrie?" As she passed through the dining-room the men smiled on her, belly-smiles. None of them noticed her while she was serving the crackers and cheese and sardines and beer. They were determining the exact psychology of Dave Dyer in standing pat, two hours before.
It was one of those mamma-made matches that we got into because we couldn't help it and out of it before it was too late. No, no, Carrie, what I want is a woman as near as possible to my own age." "Loo, I I couldn't start in with you even with the one little lie that gives every woman a right to be a liar. I'm forty-three, Louis nearer to forty-four. You're not mad, Loo?" "God love it!
"'Under the Gaslight." "When?" "On the 16th." "Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie. "I don't know any one," he replied. Suddenly he looked up. "Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?" "Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act." "How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively. "Because," answered Carrie, "I never did." Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask.
In the night he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way?
Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the need of it was the cause. Mrs.
I must go on!" cried the girl, without lifting her eyes. And presently another cry escaped her lips, a cry of joy. "He is alive!" "Thank God!" The tears sprang to the eyes of Max. It was more than he had hoped. "A doctor! Shall I fetch a doctor?" said he. Carrie shook her head. "A doctor could do no more than we've done," said she. "He'll be all right now well enough to be got away, at all events.
I am afraid we shall have to get some new stair-carpets after all; our old ones are not quite wide enough to meet the paint on either side. Carrie suggests that we might ourselves broaden the paint. April 8, Sunday. After Church, the Curate came back with us. I sent Carrie in to open front door, which we do not use except on special occasions.
But there was a sadder day; a narrow coffin, a black hearse, and a tolling bell, which always wakes me from my sleep, and I find the dream all gone, and nothing left of the little child but the wicked Lenora Carter." Here the dark girl buried her face in her hands and wept, while Carrie gently smoothed her tangled curls.
I won't hurt you." "I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully. "Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they look fine. Put on your jacket." Carrie obeyed. "Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. "What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast." Carrie put on her hat.
Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as though she could hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been so entirely different. All during the long afternoon she thought of the city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings. Columbia City and the better side of her home life came back.
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