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Updated: June 8, 2025
A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all immediate fears on that score. "Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'll be dropped if you're not." Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's idleness. She had a place she had a place! This sang in her ears. In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood.
She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think for herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out more. "Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next of Hurstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box.
There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humor of it. " When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet. " On Wednesday," he replied. " It's rather hard to have your husband addressing Carrie like that, isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie. " She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.
It gave him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light, under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably. "Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder very deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment. "That's rather good," he said. "You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You take my advice."
She felt Hurstwood's passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered what he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the misery of another.
It isn't anything to talk about now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day." The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something. "Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.
Here lies the field of his finest victories, here and in those adjacent tracts of other books which are nearest this simple method: his representation of old Gerhardt and of Aaron Berchansky in The Hand of the Potter; numerous sketches of character in that broad pageant A Hoosier Holiday; the tenderly conceived record of Caroline Meeber, wispy and witless as she often is; the masterly study of Hurstwood's deterioration in Sister Carrie this last the peak among all Mr.
Her feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they constructed out of these recent developments something which conquered freedom from dishonour. She had no idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generous results accordingly. As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without responsibility.
He was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would not trust to this fine hand any longer. "I call," he said. "A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards. Hurstwood's hand dropped. "I thought I had you," he said, weakly.
He talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner. "Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit. "Three thousand," said the man. Hurstwood's jaw fell. "Cash?" he said. "Cash."
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