of my lady’s window — to languish and repine in the face of difficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have given anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended — to have Carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of Drouet effectually and forever.
What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence.
At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down. His wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own in silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof.
“I’ve told you about this before, Maggie,” said Mrs. Hurstwood. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to him.
“Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your vacation?”
It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at this season of the year.
“Not yet,” he said, “I’m very busy just now.”
“Well, you’ll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won’t you, if we’re going?” she returned.
“I guess we have a few days yet,” he said.
“Hmff,” she returned. “Don’t wait until the season’s over.”
She stirred in aggravation as she said this.
“There you go again,” he observed. “One would think I never did anything, the way you begin.”
“Well, I want to know about it,” she reiterated.
“You’ve got a few days yet,” he insisted. “You’ll not want to start before the races are over.”
He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to have his thoughts for other purposes.
“Well, we may. Jessica doesn’t want to stay until the end of the races.”
“What did you want with a season ticket, then?”
“Uh!” she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust, “I’ll not argue with you,” and therewith arose to leave the table.
“Say,” he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voice which caused her to delay her departure, “what’s the matter with you of late? Can’t I talk with you any more?”
“Certainly, you can TALK with me,” she replied, laying emphasis on the word.
“Well, you wouldn’t think so by the way you act. Now, you want to know when I’ll be ready — not for a month yet. Maybe not then.”
“We’ll go without you.”
“You will, eh?” he sneered.
“Yes, we will.”
He was astonished at the woman’s determination, but it only irritated him the more.
“Well, we’ll see about that. It seems to me you’re trying to run things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled my affairs for me. Well, you don’t. You don’t regulate anything that’s connected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won’t hurry me by any such talk as that.”
He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor.
His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with her.
Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like treatment or she would know why.
For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and opposition possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagles’ wings. He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. What was the night, after all, without her — what the day? She must and should be his.
For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling since she had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet’s enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which concerned herself, with very little for that which affected his own gain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because her thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood’s passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered what he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the misery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was, all in all, exceedingly happy.
On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning the event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouet himself was not talking so much OF as FOR her. He felt instinctively that, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in her regard.
“I think,” he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next morning, preparatory to going down town, “that I’ll straighten out that little deal of mine this month and then we’ll get married. I was talking with Mosher about that yesterday.”
“No, you won’t,” said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint power to jest with the drummer.
“Yes, I will,” he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with the tone of one who pleads, “Don’t you believe what I’ve told you?”
Carrie laughed
