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Her sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil from which she had so recently sprung, and which she best understood. Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose feelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know, but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. He never attempted to analyze the nature of his affection.
"All right," said the man. Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their places. 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 hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart. At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state.
"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man. "I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready there'll be nothing to stop me for." He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room. "Who was it?" asked Carrie. "A friend of mine from Chicago."
He had faithfully promised to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise. "Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to the theatre with him." Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid notice. "When?" she asked, with assumed indifference. "Wednesday.
There could be nothing more in that quarter. She would see Hurstwood no more. She would write him and let him know what she thought. Thereupon what would she do? Here were these rooms. Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain. Evidently things could go on here somewhat as before, if all were arranged. It would be better than the street, without a place to lay her head.
"She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep up with her 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 the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll happen. He may get down like anybody else."
He had erred, true, but what had she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. On the other hand, there was Hurstwood a greater deceiver than he. He had pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had loved him.
So off he went to a poker room in the neighborhood, feeling much as he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.
Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught Hurstwood's eye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. Then some of the latter's impression forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie and their last meeting. By George, he would have to explain this to Hurstwood.
He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded.
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