“I don’t think he wants to buy,” he said to himself.  “He doesn’t talk right.”

The afternoon was as gray as lead and cold.  It was blowing up a disagreeable winter wind.  He visited a place far up on the east side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o’clock, and growing dim, when he reached there.  A portly German kept this place.

“How about this ad of yours?” asked Hurstwood, who rather objected to the looks of the place.

“Oh, dat iss all over,” said the German.  “I vill not sell now.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes; dere is nothing to dat.  It iss all over.”

“Very well,” said Hurstwood, turning around.

The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.

“The crazy ass!” he said to himself.  “What does he want to advertise for?”

Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street.  The flat had only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working.  He struck a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her.  She came to the door and looked in.

“It’s you, is it?” she said, and went back.

“Yes,” he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he had bought.

Carrie saw things were wrong with him.  He was not so handsome when gloomy.  The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened.  Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister.  He was quite a disagreeable figure.

Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said, passing him for something.

He did not answer, reading on.

She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched.

“Won’t you eat now?” she asked.

He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except for the “Pass me’s.”

“It’s been gloomy to-day, hasn’t it?” ventured Carrie, after a time.

“Yes,” he said.

He only picked at his food.

“Are you still sure to close up?” said Carrie, venturing to take up the subject which they had discussed often enough.

“Of course we are,” he said, with the slightest modification of sharpness.

This retort angered Carrie.  She had had a dreary day of it herself.

“You needn’t talk like that,” she said.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, but letting it go at that.  Then he picked up his paper.  Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty.  He saw she was hurt.

“Don’t go ’way,” he said, as she started back into the kitchen.  “Eat your dinner.”

She passed, not answering.

He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his coat.

“I’m going downtown, Carrie,” he said, coming out.  “I’m out of sorts to-night.”

She did not answer.

“Don’t be angry,” he said.  “It will be all right to morrow.”