the subject in his mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and looking out. “Well,” she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, “what makes you hurry so?”
Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.
“When did you get home?” he asked foolishly.
“Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?”
“You weren’t here,” he said, “when I came back this morning, and I thought you had gone out.”
“So I did,” said Carrie simply. “I went for a walk.”
Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most flagrant manner until at last she said:
“What makes you stare at me so? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “I was just thinking.”
“Just thinking what?” she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude.
“Oh, nothing — nothing much.”
“Well, then, what makes you look so?”
Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the little toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe that the pretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory to himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, after all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some sort, but he knew not what.
“Where did you go this morning?” he finally asked weakly.
“Why, I went for a walk,” said Carrie.
“Sure you did?” he asked.
“Yes, what makes you ask?”
She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly.
“I thought maybe you didn’t,” he said, beating about the bush in the most useless manner.
Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman’s intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.
“What makes you talk like that?” she asked, wrinkling her pretty forehead. “You act so funny to-night.”
“I feel funny,” he answered. They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject.
“What’s this about you and Hurstwood?” he asked.
“Me and Hurstwood — what do you mean?”
“Didn’t he come here a dozen times while I was away?”
“A dozen times,” repeated Carrie, guiltily. “No, but what do you mean?”
“Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here every night.”
“No such thing,” answered Carrie. “It isn’t true. Who told you that?”
She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with denials.
“Well, some one,” he said. “You’re sure you didn’t?”
“Certainly,” said Carrie. “You know how often he came.”
Drouet paused for a moment and thought.
“I know what you told me,” he said finally.
He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.
“Well, I know that I didn’t tell you any such thing as that,” said Carrie, recovering herself.
“If I were you,” went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, “I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He’s a married man, you know.”
“Who — who is?” said Carrie, stumbling at the word.
“Why, Hurstwood,” said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he was delivering a telling blow.
“Hurstwood!” exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without herself in a half-dazed way.
“Who told you this?” she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of order and exceedingly incriminating.
“Why, I know it. I’ve always known it,” said Drouet.
Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which were anything but crumbling cowardice.
“I thought I told you,” he added.
“No, you didn’t,” she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. “You didn’t do anything of the kind.”
Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.
“I thought I did,” he said.
Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the window.
“You oughtn’t to have had anything to do with him,” said Drouet in an injured tone, “after all I’ve done for you.”
“You,” said Carrie, “you! What have you done for me?”
Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings — shame at exposure, shame at Hurstwood’s perfidy, anger at Drouet’s deception, the mockery he had made at her. Now one clear idea came into her head. He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwood out — Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind now about Hurstwood’s perfidy — why had he done this? Why hadn’t he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had done for her!
“Well, I like that,” exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his remark had generated. “I think I’ve done a good deal.”
“You have, eh?” she answered. “You’ve deceived me — that’s what you’ve done. You’ve brought your old friends out here under false pretences. You’ve made me out to be — Oh,” and with this her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically.
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” said
