It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she would be listening to this.  It would come infrequently-when something else did not interface when the pleasant side was not too apparent, when Drouet was not there.  It was somewhat clear in utterance at first, but never wholly convincing.  There was always an answer, always the December days threatened.  She was alone; she was desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind.  The voice of what made answer for her.

Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that somber garb of gray, wrapped in which it goes about its labors during the long winter.  Its endless buildings look gray, its sky and its street assume a somber hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of color.  There seems to be something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts.  Not poets alone, nor artist, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men.  These feels as much as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.  The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dry horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter.  It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate.  If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary display within and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth.  We are more dependent upon these things than is often thought.  We are insects produced by heat, and pass without it.

In the drag of such a gray day the secret voice would reassert itself, feebly and more feebly.

Such mental conflict was not always uppermost.  Carrie was not by any means a gloomy soul.  More, she had not the mind to get firm hold a definite truth.  When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would tune away entirely.

Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of his sort. he took her about a great deal spent money upon her, and when he traveled took her with him.  There were times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.

" Say.  Carrie,” he said one morning, shortly after they had so established themselves, " I’ve invited my friend Hurstwood to come out some day and spend the evening with us.”

" Who is he?” asked Carrie, doubtfully.