“Oh, something for street wear.”
“All right,” he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn’t.
Nothing was said about it the next day, but the following morning he asked:
“Have you done anything about your dress?”
“Not yet,” said Carrie.
He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:
“Would you mind putting it off a few days?”
“No,” replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. She had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.
“Why?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Hurstwood. “This investment of mine is taking a lot of money just now.
I expect to get it all back shortly, but just at present I am running close.”
“Oh!” answered Carrie.
“Why, certainly, dear.
Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It wasn’t necessary,” said Hurstwood.
For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way Hurstwood spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal which he was always about to put through.
It was only the thought of a second, but it was a beginning.
It was something new in her thinking of Hurstwood.
Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full revelation.
Carrie was not dull by any means.
Two persons cannot long dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.
The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether he voluntarily confesses them or not.
Trouble gets in the air and contributes gloom, which speaks for itself.
Hurstwood dressed as nicely as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada.
Carrie noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was anything but large.
She noticed, also, that he did not suggest many amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his business.
This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago — not the liberal, opulent Hurstwood she had known.
The change was too obvious to escape detection.
In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she was not in his confidence.
He was evidently secretive and kept his own counsel.
She found herself asking him questions about little things. This is a disagreeable state to a woman.
Great love makes it seem reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory.
Where great love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is reached.
As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties of a changed condition.
He was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting where he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state with his former, hour after hour, and day after day.
Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever since one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the city.
It was in Broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he knew.
There was no time for simulating non-recognition.
The exchange of glances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent.
So the friend, a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce, the necessity of stopping.
“How are you?” he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of feeling and a lack of plausible interest.
“Very well,” said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed.
“How is it with you?”
“All right; I’m down here doing a little buying.
Are you located here now?”
“Yes,” said Hurstwood,
“I have a place down in Warren Street.”
“Is that so?” said the friend.
“Glad to hear it.
I’ll come down and see you.”