“You ought to have a piano here, Drouet,” said Hurstwood, smiling at Carrie, on the evening in question, “so that your wife could play.”
Drouet had not thought of that.
“So we ought,” he observed readily.
“Oh, I don’t play,” ventured Carrie.
“It isn’t very difficult,” returned Hurstwood. “You could do very well in a few weeks.”
He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round mother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the material. Hurstwood’s shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not help feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft leather, where all else was so rich. She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They were things which would naturally flow from the situation. She was used to Drouet’s appearance.
“Suppose we have a little game of euchre?” suggested Hurstwood, after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of Carrie’s past. He kept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself to those things which did not concern individuals at all. By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her. He pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.
“I don’t know how to play,” said Carrie.
“Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty,” he observed to Drouet most affably. “Between us, though,” he went on, “we can show you.”
By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be there. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light, under Hurstwood’s appreciation. The situation livened considerably.
“Now, let me see,” said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie’s shoulder very deferentially. “What have you?” He studied for a moment. “That’s rather good,” he said.
“You’re lucky. Now, I’ll show you how to trounce your husband. You take my advice.”
“Here,” said Drouet, “if you two are going to scheme together, I won’t stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood’s a regular sharp.”
“No, it’s your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn’t she win?”
Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The former took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy himself. Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.
“There,” he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving Carrie a chance to take a trick. “I count that clever playing for a beginner.”
The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.
He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild light in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and kindness. He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it with one of innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was doing a great deal.
“It’s unfair to let such playing go without earning something,” he said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his coat. “Let’s play for dimes.”
“All right,” said Drouet, fishing for bills.
Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces. “Here we are,” he said, supplying each one with a little stack.
“Oh, this is gambling,” smiled Carrie. “It’s bad.”
“No,” said Drouet, “only fun. If you never play for more than that, you will go to Heaven.”
“Don’t you moralise,” said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, “until you see what becomes of the money.”
Drouet smiled.
“If your husband gets them, he’ll tell you how bad it is.”
Drouet laughed loud.
There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood’s voice, the insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.
“When do you leave?” said Hurstwood to Drouet.
“On Wednesday,” he replied.
“It’s rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn’t it?” said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.
“She’s going along with me this time,” said Drouet.
“You must both go with me to the theatre before you go.”
“Certainly,” said Drouet. “Eh, Carrie?”
“I’d like it ever so much,” she replied.
Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.
“Now,” he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his eyes, “you must be ready at 7.30. I’ll come and get you.”
They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.
“Now,” he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship, “when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. It will break up her loneliness.”
“Sure,” said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.
“You’re so kind,” observed Carrie.
“Not at all,” said Hurstwood, “I would want your husband to do as much for me.”
He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed. She had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was equally pleased.
“There’s a nice man,” he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to their cosey chamber. “A good friend of mine, too.”
“He seems to be,” said Carrie.
Chapter XI
* * *
The Persuasion Of Fashion — Feeling Guards O’er Its Own
Carrie was an apt student of fortune’s ways—of fortune’s superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not so afflicted; and on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed. Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of the so-called inanimate! Who shall translate for us the language of the stones?
“My dear,” said the lace collar she secured from Partridge’s, “I fit you beautifully; don’t give me up.”
“Ah, such little feet,” said the leather of the soft new shoes; “how effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid.”
Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she would not give them up. “Put on the old clothes—that torn pair of shoes,” was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance?—be old-clothed and poorappearing?—never!
Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we desire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the circumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a habit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. He had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge—not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw how they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper. He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him. He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this, their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.