“Perhaps I shall,” she returned.

“That’s your field,” he added.

“Do you think so?”

“Yes,” he said; “I do.  I don’t suppose you’re aware of it, but there is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of work.”

Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously.  For the moment, loneliness deserted her.  Here was praise which was keen and analytical.

“It’s in your eyes and mouth,” he went on abstractedly.  “I remember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something peculiar about your mouth.  I thought you were about to cry.”

“How odd,” said Carrie, warm with delight.  This was what her heart craved.

“Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I saw it again.  There’s a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much this same character.  It’s in the depth of them, I think.”

Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.

“You probably are not aware of it,” he added.

She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equal to this feeling written upon her countenance.  It unlocked the door to a new desire.  She had cause to ponder over this until they met again-several weeks or more.  It showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage and thereafter, for a long time.  Why had she lost it?

“I know why you should be a success,” he said, another time, “if you had a more dramatic part.  I’ve studied it out——­”

“What is it?” said Carrie.

“Well,” he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, “the expression in your face is one that comes out in different things.  You get the same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply.  It’s a thing the world likes to see, because it’s a natural expression of its longing.”

Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.

“The world is always struggling to express itself,” he went on “Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings.  They depend upon others.  That is what genius is for.  One man expresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play.  Sometimes nature does it in a face-it makes the face representative of all desire.  That’s what has happened in your case.”

He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes that she caught it.  At least, she got the idea that her look was something which represented the world’s longing.  She took it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added: 

“That puts a burden of duty on you.  It so happens that you have this thing.  It is no credit to you—­that is, I mean, you might not have had it.  You paid nothing to get it.  But now that you have it, you must do something with it.”

“What?” asked Carrie.

“I should say, turn to the dramatic field.  You have so much sympathy and such a melodious voice.  Make them valuable to others.  It will make your powers endure.”