“Who is he?”
“That’s Jules Wallace, the spiritualist.”
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
“Doesn’t look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?” said Drouet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got the money, all right,” and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
“I don’t go much on those things, do you?” asked Drouet.
“Well, you never can tell,” said Hurstwood.
“There may be something to it.
I wouldn’t bother about it myself, though.
By the way,” he added, “are you going anywhere to-night?”
“‘The Hole in the Ground,’” said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time.
“Well, you’d better be going.
It’s half after eight already,” and he drew out his watch.
The crowd was already thinning out considerably — some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures — for the type of man there represented, at least — the ladies.
“Yes, I will,” said Drouet.
“Come around after the show.
I have something I want to show you,” said Hurstwood.
“Sure,” said Drouet, elated.
“You haven’t anything on hand for the night, have you?” added Hurstwood.
“Not a thing.”
“Well, come round, then.”
“I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday,” remarked Drouet, by way of parting.
“By George, that’s so, I must go and call on her before I go away.”
“Oh, never mind her,” Hurstwood remarked.
“Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you,” went on Drouet confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.
“Twelve o’clock,” said Hurstwood.
“That’s right,” said Drouet, going out.
Thus was Carrie’s name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her unfolding fate.
Chapter VI
The Machine and the Maiden — A Knight of to-Day
At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere.
The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased her knowledge of its character.
Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report.
Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied.
“Well,” he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, “how did you make out?”
“Oh,” said Carrie, “it’s pretty hard.
I don’t like it.”
There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she was both weary and disappointed.
“What sort of work is it?” he asked, lingering a moment as he turned upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
“Running a machine,” answered Carrie.
It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the side of the flat’s success.
He was irritated a shade because it could not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be pleased.
Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie arrived.
The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing now that Carrie had reported her discontent.
To Carrie, the one relief of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say:
“Oh, well, stand it a little while.
You will get something better,” but now this was ashes.
She began to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say nothing.
She knew that she was to pay four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people.
Minnie was no companion for her sister — she was too old.