They were off for a drive—­she, looking about and noticing fine clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips which pass for humor in coy circles.  Carrie saw the great park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue.  Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth—­the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all, the beauty.  Once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget Hurstwood.  He waited until four, five, and even six.  It was getting dark when he got up out of his chair.

“I guess she isn’t coming home,” he said, grimly.

“That’s the way,” he thought.  “She’s getting a start now.  I’m out of it.”

Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue, near the Harlem River.

“What time is it?” she inquired.  “I must be getting back.”

“A quarter after five,” said her companion, consulting an elegant, open-faced watch.

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Carrie.  Then she settled back with a sigh.  “There’s no use crying over spilt milk,” she said.  “It’s too late.”

“Of course it is,” said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show.  He was greatly taken with Carrie.  “We’ll drive down to Delmonico’s now and have something there, won’t we, Orrin?”

“To be sure,” replied Orrin, gaily.

Carrie thought of Hurstwood.  Never before had she neglected dinner without an excuse.

They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine.  It was the Sherry incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to Carrie.  She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after Hurstwood’s reception, and Ames.

At this figure her mind halted.  It was a strong, clean vision.  He liked better books than she read, better people than she associated with.  His ideals burned in her heart.

“It’s fine to be a good actress,” came distinctly back.

What sort of an actress was she?

“What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?” inquired her merry companion.  “Come, now, let’s see if I can guess.”

“Oh, no,” said Carrie.  “Don’t try.”

She shook it off and ate.  She forgot, in part, and was merry.  When it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I can’t.  I have a previous engagement.”

“Oh, now, Miss Madenda,” pleaded the youth.

“No,” said Carrie, “I can’t.  You’ve been so kind, but you’ll have to excuse me.”

The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen.

“Cheer up, old man,” whispered his companion.  “We’ll go around, anyhow.  She may change her mind.”