as he saw that his hopes were futile. He must
even take her to supper, shamming. He finally went about and asked how
she was getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying
about. Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of excitement
and passion. The manager mastered himself only by a great effort.

"We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that was a
mockery of his heart.

"Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling.

The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what it
was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The
independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the
tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover.
She did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in
condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was
ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once,
only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was
when the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her. Before
Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a gentle,
impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with affection. He
could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "Ah," he thought, "the
agony of it."

Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled by
his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he
did not find affectionate relief. He whispered "to-morrow" passionately
to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the drummer and his
prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie
also felt the misery of it.

"Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness.

"Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly.

"The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him yet, and
that quick! We'll see to-morrow."

"Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,
squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on earth."

Chapter XX. THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT--THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It is no
musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing outside 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