Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman at the Casino.  This was a feature which had rapidly developed since Monday.  What they contained she well knew.  Mash notes were old affairs in their mildest form.  She remembered having received her first one far back in Columbia City.  Since then, as a chorus girl, she had received others—­gentlemen who prayed for an engagement.  They were common sport between her and Lola, who received some also.  They both frequently made light of them.

Now, however, they came thick and fast.  Gentlemen with fortunes did not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages.  Thus one: 

“I have a million in my own right.  I could give you every luxury.  There isn’t anything you could ask for that you couldn’t have.  I say this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I love you and wish to gratify your every desire.  It is love that prompts me to write.  Will you not give me one half hour in which to plead my cause?”

Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest—­though never delight—­than those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at the Wellington.  Even there her vanity—­or that self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity—­was not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome.  Adulation, being new in any form, pleased her.  Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old condition and her new one.  She had not had fame or money before.  Now they had come.  She had not had adulation and affectionate propositions before.  Now they had come.  Wherefore?  She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more attractive.  In the least way it incited her to coolness and indifference.

“Do look here,” she remarked to Lola.  “See what this man says:  ’If you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,’” she repeated, with an imitation of languor.  “The idea.  Aren’t men silly?”

“He must have lots of money, the way he talks,” observed Lola.  “That’s what they all say,” said Carrie, innocently.

“Why don’t you see him,” suggested Lola, “and hear what he has to say?”

“Indeed I won’t,” said Carrie.  “I know what he’d say.  I don’t want to meet anybody that way.”

Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes.

“He couldn’t hurt you,” she returned.  “You might have some fun with him.”

Carrie shook her head.

“You’re awfully queer,” returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.