“If we could have such a home as that,” said Mrs. Hale sadly, “how delightful it would be.”

“And yet they do say,” said Carrie, “that no one is ever happy.”

She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox.

“I notice,” said Mrs. Hale, “that they all try mighty hard, though, to take their misery in a mansion.”

When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative insignificance.  She was not so dull but that she could perceive they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished boarding-house.  She was not contrasting it now with what she had had, but what she had so recently seen.  The glow of the palatial doors was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears.  What, after all, was Drouet?  What was she?  At her window, she thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues.  She was too wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing.  Some old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank.  She longed and longed and longed.  It was now for the old cottage room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene.  She was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying.  Finally, it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the lip.  She hummed and hummed as the moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be.

While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlor asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.

“I guess he doesn’t know that Charlie is out of town,” thought Carrie.

She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another, principally by the strong impression he had made.  She was quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.

Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual.  He hadn’t heard that Drouet was out of town.  He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics which would interest Carrie.  It was surprising—­the ease with which he conducted a conversation.  He was like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy.  He knew that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which absorbed her fancy.  He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential.  He confined himself almost exclusively to his observation of men