A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all immediate fears on that score.

“Be sure you’re there promptly,” the manager said roughly.  “You’ll be dropped if you’re not.”

Carrie hastened away.  She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood’s idleness.  She had a place—­she had a place!  This sang in her ears.

In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood.  But, as she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months.

“Why don’t he get something?” she openly said to herself.  “If I can he surely ought to.  It wasn’t very hard for me.”

She forgot her youth and her beauty.  The handicap of age she did not, in her enthusiasm, perceive.

Thus, ever, the voice of success.  Still, she could not keep her secret.  She tried to be calm and indifferent, but it was a palpable sham.

“Well?” he said, seeing her relieved face.

“I have a place.”

“You have?” he said, breathing a better breath.

“Yes.”

“What sort of a place is it?” he asked, feeling in his veins as if now he might get something good also.

“In the chorus,” she answered.

“Is it the Casino show you told me about?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “I begin rehearsing to-morrow.”

There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was happy.  At last Hurstwood said: 

“Do you know how much you’ll get?”

“No, I didn’t want to ask,” said Carrie.  “I guess they pay twelve or fourteen dollars a week.”

“About that, I guess,” said Hurstwood.

There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the mere lifting of the terrible strain.  Hurstwood went out for a shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak.

“Now, to-morrow,” he thought, “I’ll look around myself,” and with renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground.

On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in the line.  She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich, oriental appearance.  The wonder of it awed and delighted her.  Blessed be its wondrous reality.  How hard she would try to be worthy of it.  It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above insignificance.  People came to it in finery and carriages to see.  It was ever a center of light and mirth.  And here she was of it.  Oh, if she could only remain, how happy would be her days!

“What is your name?” said the manager, who was conducting the drill.

“Madenda,” she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had selected in Chicago.  “Carrie Madenda.”

“Well, now, Miss Madenda,” he said, very affably, as Carrie thought, “you go over there.”