Carrie was doing better, that he knew.  Her clothes were improved now, even fine.  He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise.  Little eating had thinned him somewhat.  He had no appetite.  His clothes, too, were a poor man’s clothes.  Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him.  So he folded his hands and waited—­for what, he could not anticipate.

At last, however, troubles became too thick.  The hounding of creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax.  It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.

“I call about my bill,” said Mr. Oeslogge.

Carrie was only faintly surprised.

“How much is it?” she asked.

“Sixteen dollars,” he replied.

“Oh, that much?” said Carrie.  “Is this right?” she asked, turning to Hurstwood.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, I never heard anything about it.”

She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense.

“Well, we had it all right,” he answered.  Then he went to the door.  “I can’t pay you anything on that to-day,” he said, mildly.

“Well, when can you?” said the grocer.

“Not before Saturday, anyhow,” said Hurstwood.

“Huh!” returned the grocer.  “This is fine.  I must have that.  I need the money.”

Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all.  She was greatly distressed.  It was so bad and commonplace.  Hurstwood was annoyed also.

“Well,” he said, “there’s no use talking about it now.  If you’ll come in Saturday, I’ll pay you something on it.”

The grocery man went away.

“How are we going to pay it?” asked Carrie, astonished by the bill.  “I can’t do it.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” he said.  “He can’t get what he can’t get.  He’ll have to wait.”

“I don’t see how we ran up such a bill as that,” said Carrie.

“Well, we ate it,” said Hurstwood.

“It’s funny,” she replied, still doubting.

“What’s the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?” he asked.  “Do you think I’ve had it alone?  You talk as if I’d taken something.”

“Well, it’s too much, anyhow,” said Carrie.  “I oughtn’t to be made to pay for it.  I’ve got more than I can pay for now.”

“All right,” replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence.  He was sick of the grind of this thing.

Carrie went out and there he sat, determining to do something.

There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumors and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn.  There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labor required and the wages paid.  As usual—­and for some inexplicable reason—­the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties.