It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way.
Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad.
He went across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on Broadway.
One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down in Pearl Street.
When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he changed his mind.
“What’s the use?” he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow.
“I couldn’t buy into it.
It’s a thousand to one nothing comes of it.
I guess I’ll get off,” and off he got.
In the lobby he took a seat and waited again, wondering what he could do.
While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his memory, and then approached.
Hurstwood recognised Cargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there.
The remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear.
Hurstwood was greatly abashed.
His eyes expressed the difficulty he felt.
“Why, it’s Hurstwood!” said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided this meeting.
“Yes,” said Hurstwood.
“How are you?”
“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.
“Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I’ll leave you.
So long.”
Hurstwood nodded his head.
“Damn it all,” he murmured, turning toward the door.
“I knew that would happen.”
He walked several blocks up the street.
His watch only registered 1.30.
He tried to think of some place to go or something to do.
The day was so bad he wanted only to be inside.
Finally his feet began to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else.
Landed here, he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too much.
The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became intolerable.
He felt as if he were catching cold.
Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound.
This was no day to be out; he would go home.
Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.
“It’s a miserable day out,” was all he said.
Then he took off his coat and changed his shoes.
That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine.
He was feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him.
He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed.
He looked haggard about the eyes and quite old.