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He took it for granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further worry. Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which was irritating. She felt his indifference keenly and longed to see Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend she had on earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the damage had been done.
Carrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in the man's atmosphere. He would have churchlike silence in order to express his feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her eyes from the flat, open scene before her. Hurstwood waited for a few moments, and then repeated the words. "You must not say that," she said, weakly. Her words were not convincing at all.
Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among them.
"Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about. "Stopping here?" "No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment." "I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you." "Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away. "Doing well, I suppose?" "Excellent." "Glad to hear it." They looked at one another, rather embarrassed.
" Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. " Great old boy, isn't he? We had quite a time there together." The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the drought as they talked, Drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considering proper, and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early. "I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising. "Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, without rising. "Yes," he said indifferently. They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat. Presently the door clicked. "I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.
The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands. Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire.
Shortly the conductor would come through for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. Before everything he must make her quiet. "You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said Hurstwood. "It won't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out then if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to listen a moment.
"I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks." In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to energy. Monday Carrie went again to the Casino.
Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly. "Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.
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