began figuring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions.
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie. “I feel real bad.”
She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was out of work.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie; “I’ll go down Monday and see if I can’t get something.”
If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial than the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about, utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening. Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly she would have to give up and go home.
On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of places without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about.
“Well, well!” said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet. He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of sunshine and good-humour. “Why, how are you, Carrie?” he said. “You’re a daisy. Where have you been?”
Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.
“I’ve been out home,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I saw you across the street there. I thought it was you. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?”
“I’m all right,” said Carrie, smiling.
Drouet looked her over and saw something different.
“Well,” he said, “I want to talk to you. You’re not going anywhere in particular, are you?”
“Not just now,” said Carrie.
“Let’s go up here and have something to eat. George! but I’m glad to see you again.”
She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air of holding back.
“Well,” he said, as he took her arm — and there was an exuberance of good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her heart.
They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room, which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine and substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the window, where the busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved the changing panorama of the street — to see and be seen as he dined.
“Now,” he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, “what will you have?”
Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed her without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things she saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her attention. “Half broiled spring chicken — seventy-five. Sirloin steak with mushrooms — one twenty-five.” She had dimly heard of these things, but it seemed strange to be called to order from the list.
“I’ll fix this,” exclaimed Drouet. “Sst! waiter.”
That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro, approached, and inclined his ear.
“Sirloin with mushrooms,” said Drouet. “Stuffed tomatoes.”
“Yassah,” assented the negro, nodding his head.
“Hashed brown potatoes.”
“Yassah.”
“Asparagus.”
“Yassah.”
“And a pot of coffee.”
Drouet turned to Carrie. “I haven’t had a thing since breakfast. Just got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you.”
Carrie smiled and smiled.
“What have you been doing?” he went on. “Tell me all about yourself. How is your sister?”
“She’s well,” returned Carrie, answering the last query.
He looked at her hard.
“Say,” he said, “you haven’t been sick, have you?”
Carrie nodded.
“Well, now, that’s a blooming shame, isn’t it? You don’t look very well. I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?”
“Working,” said Carrie.
“You don’t say so! At what?”
She told him.
“Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott — why, I know that house. over here on Fifth Avenue, isn’t it? They’re a close-fisted concern. What made you go there?”
“I couldn’t get anything else,” said Carrie frankly.
“Well, that’s an outrage,” said Drouet. “You oughtn’t to be working for those people. Have the factory right back of the store, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said Carrie.
“That isn’t a good house,” said Drouet. “You don’t want to work at anything like that, anyhow.”
He chatted on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes which had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of serving. He appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and silver platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife and fork. As he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suit creaked as he stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour the coffee. He helped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his spirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was a splendid fellow in the true popular understanding of the term, and captivated Carrie completely.
That
