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 realized 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.