Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things for herself.  She needed clothes.  Her hat was not nice.

“What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?” she thought.  “I can’t do it.  Why doesn’t he get something to do?”

The important night of the first real performance came.  She did not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see.  He did not think of going.  It would only be money wasted.  She had such a small part.

The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon the bill-boards.  The leading lady and many members were cited.  Carrie was nothing.

As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered.  The apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from her.  She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter.  Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights.  A group of twelve were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about an inch above the knee.  Carrie happened to be one of the twelve.

In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit.  There was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of the women of alleged ability did.

“I could do better than that,” Carrie ventured to herself, in several instances.  To do her justice, she was right.

After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have proved satisfactory.  She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew but few, and the stars were gossiping.  Outside were carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting.  Carrie saw that she was scanned closely.  The flutter of an eyelash would have brought her a companion.  That she did not give.

One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.

“Not going home alone, are you?” he said.

Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car.  Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing else.

“Did you hear any more from the brewery?” she asked at the end of the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.

“No,” he answered, “they’re not quite ready yet.  I think something will come of that, though.”

She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money, and yet feeling that such would have to be the case.  Hurstwood felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie.  He had long since realized how good-natured she was, how much she would stand.  There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he really would get something.  Rent day gave him his opportunity.