LITMIR.BIZ

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of some sort, but he knew not what.

      “Where did you go this morning?” he finally asked weakly.

      “Why, I went for a walk,” said Carrie.

      “Sure you did?” he asked.

      “Yes, what makes you ask?”

      She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly.

      “I thought maybe you didn’t,” he said, beating about the bush in the most useless manner.

      Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman’s intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.

      “What makes you talk like that?” she asked, wrinkling her pretty forehead. “You act so funny to-night.”

      “I feel funny,” he answered. They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject.

      “What’s this about you and Hurstwood?” he asked.

      “Me and Hurstwood — what do you mean?”

      “Didn’t he come here a dozen times while I was away?”

      “A dozen times,” repeated Carrie, guiltily. “No, but what do you mean?”

      “Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here every night.”

      “No such thing,” answered Carrie. “It isn’t true. Who told you that?”

      She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with denials.

      “Well, some one,” he said. “You’re sure you didn’t?”

      “Certainly,” said Carrie. “You know how often he came.”

      Drouet paused for a moment and thought.

      “I know what you told me,” he said finally.

      He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.

      “Well, I know that I didn’t tell you any such thing as that,” said Carrie, recovering herself.

      “If I were you,” went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, “I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He’s a married man, you know.”

      “Who — who is?” said Carrie, stumbling at the word.

      “Why, Hurstwood,” said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he was delivering a telling blow.

      “Hurstwood!” exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without herself in a half-dazed way.

      “Who told you this?” she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of order and exceedingly incriminating.

      “Why, I know it. I’ve always known it,” said Drouet.

      Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which were anything but crumbling cowardice.

      “I thought I told you,” he added.

      “No, you didn’t,” she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. “You didn’t do anything of the kind.”

      Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.

      “I thought I did,” he said.

      Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the window.

      “You oughtn’t to have had anything to do with him,” said Drouet in an injured tone, “after all I’ve done for you.”

      “You,” said Carrie, “you! What have you done for me?”

      Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings — shame at exposure, shame at Hurstwood’s perfidy, anger at Drouet’s deception, the mockery he had made at her. Now one clear idea came into her head. He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwood out — Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind now about Hurstwood’s perfidy — why had he done this? Why hadn’t he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had done for her!

      “Well, I like that,” exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his remark had generated. “I think I’ve done a good deal.”

      “You have, eh?” she answered. “You’ve deceived me — that’s what you’ve done. You’ve brought your old friends out here under false pretences. You’ve made me out to be — Oh,” and with this her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically.

      “I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” said the drummer quaintly.

      “No,” she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. “No, of course you don’t see. There isn’t anything you see. You couldn’t have told me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with your information and your talk about what you have done.”

      Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie’s nature. She was alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.

      “Who’s sneaking?” he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but certain that he was wronged.

      “You are,” stamped Carrie. “You’re a horrid, conceited coward, that’s what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn’t have thought of doing any such thing.”

      The drummer stared.

      “I’m not a coward,” he said. “What do you mean by going with other men, anyway?”

      “Other men!” exclaimed Carrie. “Other men — you know better than that. I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn’t you bring him here? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take me out. Now, after it’s all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn’t to go with him and that he’s a married man.”

      She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. The knowledge of Hurstwood’s perfidy wounded her like a knife. “Oh,” she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes dry. “Oh, oh!”

      “Well, I didn’t think you’d be running around with him when I was away,” insisted Drouet.

      “Didn’t think!” said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man’s peculiar attitude. “Of course not. You thought only of what would be to your satisfaction. You thought you’d make a toy of me — a plaything. Well, I’ll show you that you won’t. I’ll have nothing more to do with you at all. You can take your old things and keep them,” and unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things which belonged to her.

      By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He looked at her in amazement, and finally said:

      “I don’t see where your wrath comes in. I’ve got the right of this thing. You oughtn’t to have done anything that wasn’t right after all I did for you.”

      “What have you done for me?” asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown back and her lips parted.

      “I think I’ve done a good deal,” said the drummer, looking around. “I’ve given you all the clothes you wanted, haven’t I? I’ve taken you everywhere you wanted to go. You’ve had as much as I’ve had, and more too.”

      Carrie was not ungrateful,

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