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The one fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That's bad. It's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want to do that." "I see," said Hurstwood. He waited and waited, while the man talked on. "Now you take it," he said, finally. The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he thought.
Vance, laughing, the while noting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address, too," she added 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. He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance.
In the third place, she wished to exhibit Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things and parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an incentive as anything. Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.
The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow. "You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your car." Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him. "Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to the corporations." He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as before, he pretended not to hear him.
A half dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn. In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean.
"Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken something." "Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now." "All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the grind of this thing. Carrie went out and there he sat, determining to do something.
"Is that so? Had your breakfast?" "Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave." "Won't you come have a drink?" "Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later. Are you stopping here?" "Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added: "How are things out in Chicago?" "About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially. "Wife with you?"
The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr. Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing establishment. They had driven out early, and, as it chanced, encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening before.
While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial. "Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around. Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly.
Even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She thought, but made no sign. Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his ardour. "Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago any more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with me.
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