“I don’t care,” thought Carrie.
“He ought to be told to get out and do something.
It isn’t right that I should support him.”
In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of Miss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and festive.
They called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoon drive.
Carrie was with her at the time.
“Come and go along,” said Lola.
“No, I can’t,” said Carrie.
“Oh, yes, come and go.
What have you got to do?”
“I have to be home by five,” said Carrie.
“What for?”
“Oh, dinner.”
“They’ll take us to dinner,” said Lola.
“Oh, no,” said Carrie. “I won’t go.
I can’t.”
“Oh, do come.
They’re awful nice boys.
We’ll get you back in time.
We’re only going for a drive in Central Park.”
Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded.
“Now, I must be back by half-past four,” she said.
The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other.
After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in her attitude toward young men — especially of the gay and frivolous sort.
She felt a little older than they.
Some of their pretty compliments seemed silly.
Still, she was young in heart and body and youth appealed to her.
“Oh, we’ll be right back, Miss Madenda,” said one of the chaps, bowing.
“You wouldn’t think we’d keep you over time, now, would you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Carrie, smiling.
They were off for a drive — she, looking about and noticing fine clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips which pass for humour in coy circles.
Carrie saw the great park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue.
Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth — the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all, the beauty.
Once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget Hurstwood.
He waited until four, five, and even six.
It was getting dark when he got up out of his chair.
“I guess she isn’t coming home,” he said, grimly.
“That’s the way,” he thought.
“She’s getting a start now. I’m out of it.”
Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue, near the Harlem River.
“What time is it?” she inquired.
“I must be getting back.”
“A quarter after five,” said her companion, consulting an elegant, open-faced watch.
“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Carrie.
Then she settled back with a sigh.
“There’s no use crying over spilt milk,” she said.
“It’s too late.”
“Of course it is,” said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show.
He was greatly taken with Carrie.
“We’ll drive down to Delmonico’s now and have something there, won’t we, Orrin?”