Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.  There was delight in going down town evenings.  When he walked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle.  He began to experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover’s feet.  When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes—­and her eyes were young.

When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife’s voice, when the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale practice, how it grated.  He then knew that this was a chain which bound his feet.

“George,” said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, “we want you to get us a season ticket to the races.”

“Do you want to go to all of them?” he said with a rising inflection.

“Yes,” she answered.

The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism.  Mrs. Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain considerations decided her to get a box.  For one thing, one of her neighbors, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of money, made out of the coal business, had done so.  In the next place, her favorite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a two-year old in the Derby.  In the third place, she wished to exhibit Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means.  Her own desire to be about in such things and parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an incentive as anything.

Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.  They were in the sitting room on the second floor, waiting for supper.  It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see “The Covenant,” which had brought him home to make some alterations in his dress.

“You’re sure separate tickets wouldn’t do as well?” he asked, hesitating to say anything more rugged.

“No,” she replied impatiently.

“Well,” he said, taking offence at her manner, “you needn’t get mad about it.  I’m just asking you.”

“I’m not mad,” she snapped.  “I’m merely asking you for a season ticket.”

“And I’m telling you,” he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her, “that it’s no easy thing to get.  I’m not sure whether the manager will give it to me.”

He had been thinking all the time of his “pull” with the racetrack magnates.

“We can buy it then,” she exclaimed sharply.

“You talk easy,” he said.  “A season family ticket costs one hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I’ll not argue with you,” she replied with determination.  “I want the ticket and that’s all there is to it.”