“Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it,” returned Hurstwood.  “He’s got a soft job.”

Hurstwood was looking into the paper.  He could not see the look of infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.

“She said she thought she’d call here some day.”

“She’s been long getting round to it, hasn’t she?” said Hurstwood, with a kind of sarcasm.

The woman didn’t appeal to him from her spending side.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Carrie, angered by the man’s attitude.  “Perhaps I didn’t want her to come.”

“She’s too gay,” said Hurstwood, significantly.  “No one can keep up with her pace unless they’ve got a lot of money.”

“Mr. Vance doesn’t seem to find it very hard.”

“He may not now,” answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the inference; “but his life isn’t done yet.  You can’t tell what’ll happen.  He may get down like anybody else.”

There was something quite knavish in the man’s attitude.  His eye seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat.  His own state seemed a thing apart—­not considered.

This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and independence.  Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him.  Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears.  It was as if he said: 

“I can do something.  I’m not down yet.  There’s a lot of things coming to me if I want to go after them.”

It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively.  Not with any definite aim.  It was more a barometric condition.  He felt just right for being outside and doing something.

On such occasions, his money went also.  He knew of several poker rooms down town.  A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and about the City Hall.  It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly commonplaces.

He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker.  Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game-not the all in all.  Now, he thought of playing.

“I might win a couple of hundred.  I’m not out of practice.”

It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several times before he acted upon it.  The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries.  He had been there before.  Several games were going.  These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved.

“Deal me a hand,” he said at the beginning of a new shuffle.  He pulled up a chair and studied his cards.  Those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.