“That girl knows how to carry herself,” said the manager, another evening.  He began to think that he should like to talk with her.  If he hadn’t made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly.

“Put that girl at the head of the white column,” he suggested to the man in charge of the ballet.

This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow white flannel trimmed with silver and blue.  Its leader was most stunningly arrayed in the same colors, elaborated, however, with epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one side.  Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later appeared, proud of her new laurels.  She was especially gratified to find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve.

Hurstwood heard nothing about this.

“I’ll not give him the rest of my money,” said Carrie.  “I do enough.  I am going to get me something to wear.”

As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the consequences.  There were impending more complications rent day, and more extension of the credit system in the neighborhood.  Now, however, she proposed to do better by herself.

Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she found how little her money would buy—­how much, if she could only use all.  She forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could be spent for clothes and things that she liked.

At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum.  She knew she was going too far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed.  The next day Hurstwood said: 

“We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week.”

“Do we?” said Carrie, frowning a little.

She looked in her purse to leave it.

“I’ve only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether.”

“We owe the milkman sixty cents,” added Hurstwood.

“Yes, and there’s the coal man,” said Carrie.

Hurstwood said nothing.  He had seen the new things she was buying; the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with which she was slipping out afternoons and staying.  He felt that something was going to happen.  All at once she spoke: 

“I don’t know,” she said; “I can’t do it all.  I don’t earn enough.”

This was a direct challenge.  Hurstwood had to take it up.  He tried to be calm.

“I don’t want you to do it all,” he said.  “I only want a little help until I can get something to do.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Carrie.  “That’s always the way.  It takes more than I can earn to pay for things.  I don’t see what I’m going to do.

“Well, I’ve tried to get something,” he exclaimed.  What do you want me to do?”