Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not directly said so, and her spirits rose.  She proposed to make the best of the situation until Drouet left again.

“Don’t show any more interest in me than you ever have,” Hurstwood counseled concerning the evening at the theatre.

“You mustn’t look at me steadily then,” she answered, mindful of the power of his eyes.

“I won’t,” he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance she had just cautioned against.

“There,” she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.

“The show hasn’t begun yet,” he returned.

He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation.  Such youth and prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.

At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood’s favor.  If he had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now.  His grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium.  Carrie watched his every movement with pleasure.  She almost forgot poor Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.

Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change.  He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in favor may so secretly practice before the mistress of his heart.  If anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.

Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to Drouet alone.

The scene was one in “The Covenant,” in which the wife listened to the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.

“Served him right,” said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen expiation of her error.  “I haven’t any pity for a man who would be such a chump as that.”

“Well, you never can tell,” returned Hurstwood gently.  “He probably thought he was right.”

“Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he wants to keep her.”

They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy crush about the entrance way.

“Say, mister,” said a voice at Hurstwood’s side, “would you mind giving me the price of a bed?”

Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.

“Honest to God, mister, I’m without a place to sleep.”

The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the picture of privation and wretchedness.  Drouet was the first to see.  He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart.  Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident.  Carrie quickly forgot.

Chapter XV THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES—­THE MAGIC OF YOUTH

The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth of his affection for Carrie.  His actions, in all that related to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind.  He sat at breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests.  He read his paper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by his son and daughter.  Between himself and his wife ran a river of indifference.