Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely realizing what had happened.  She knew that he had stormed out.  It was some moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now exactly, but ever.  She looked around her upon the rooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite the same towards them.  She went over to the dresser and struck a match, lighting the gas.  Then she went back to the rocker to think.

It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she did, this truth began to take on importance.  She was quite alone.  Suppose Drouet did not come back?  Suppose she should never hear anything more of him?  This fine arrangement of chambers would not last long.  She would have to quit them.

To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood.  She could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret.  For a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human depravity.  He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash.  She would have been led into a newer and worse situation.  And yet she could not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners.  Only this one deed seemed strange and miserable.  It contrasted sharply with all she felt and knew concerning the man.

But she was alone.  That was the greater thought just at present.  How about that?  Would she go out to work again?  Would she begin to look around in the business district?  The stage!  Oh, yes.  Drouet had spoken about that.  Was there any hope there?  She moved to and fro, in deep and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell completely.  She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking it over.

She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts.  She looked at these things with certain misgivings.  The contemplation of food had more significance than usual.

While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had.  It struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look for her purse.  It was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in bills and some change.  She quailed as she thought of the insignificance of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of the month.  She began also to think what she would have done if she had gone out into the street when she first started.  By the side of that situation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable.  She had a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out all right, after all.

Drouet had gone, but what of it?  He did not seem seriously angry.  He only acted as if he were huffy.  He would come back—­of course he would.  There was his cane in the corner.  Here was one of his collars.  He had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe.  She looked about and tried to assure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived.  Supposing he did come back.  Then what?