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all convincing about what Drouet said.

      And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood’s love. No strain of bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless sea of speculation.

      “Why don’t you come away?” he said, tenderly. “I will arrange for you whatever — ”

      “Oh, don’t,” said Carrie.

      “Don’t what?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

      There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of marriage.

      He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in. He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan.

      “Won’t you come?” he said, beginning over and with a more reverent feeling. “You know I can’t do without you — you know it — it can’t go on this way — can it?”

      “I know,” said Carrie.

      “I wouldn’t ask if I— I wouldn’t argue with you if I could help it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don’t want to stay away from me, do you?”

      She shook her head as if in deep thought. “Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?”

      “I don’t know,” said Carrie.

      “Don’t know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don’t torment me. Be serious.”

      “I am,” said Carrie, softly.

      “You can’t be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love you. Look at last night.”

      His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man’s nature was distilling itself.

      Carrie made no answer.

      “How can you act this way, dearest?” he inquired, after a time. “You love me, don’t you?”

      He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For the moment all doubts were cleared away.

      “Yes,” she answered, frankly and tenderly.

      “Well, then you’ll come, won’t you — come to-night?”

      Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.

      “I can’t wait any longer,” urged Hurstwood. “If that is too soon, come Saturday.”

      “When will we be married?” she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet’s wife.

      The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to his mind.

      “Any time you say,” he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his present delight with this miserable problem.

      “Saturday?” asked Carrie.

      He nodded his head.

      “Well, if you will marry me then,” she said, “I’ll go.”

      The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth.

      Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. “Well,” she said, “I’ll try and get ready then.”

      Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more lovely.

      “I’ll see you again tomorrow,” he said, joyously, “and we’ll talk over the plans.”

      He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began to realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world.

      “To-morrow,” he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully to his brave demeanour.

      “Yes,” said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.

      There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they would be happy.

      Chapter XXII

      The Blaze of the Tinder — Flesh Wars with the Flesh

       Table of Contents

      The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs. Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a social sense he fell short. With his regard died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her husband’s indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her presence.

      As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.

      This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement of satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently, he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already left the house.

      “I wish you wouldn’t be so late coming down to breakfast,” she said, addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. “Now here the things are quite cold, and you haven’t eaten.”

      Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to feel the fag end of the storm.

      “I’m not hungry,” she answered.

      “Then why don’t you say so, and let the girl put away the things, instead of keeping her waiting all morning?”

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