Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet’s invitation, to meet a new baggage of fine clothes and pretty features.  He entered, expecting to indulge in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer forever.  Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted him.  In the mild light of Carrie’s eye was nothing of the calculation of the mistress.  In the diffident manner was nothing of the art of the courtesan.  He saw at once that a mistake had been made, that some difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature into his presence, and his interest was enlisted.  Here sympathy sprang to the rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness.  He wanted to win Carrie because he thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were united with Drouet’s.  He envied the drummer his conquest as he had never envied any man in all the course of his experience.

Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior, mentally, to Drouet.  She came fresh from the air of the village, the light of the country still in her eye.  Here was neither guile nor rapacity.  There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they were rudimentary.  She was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy.  She still looked about her upon the great maze of the city without understanding.  Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth.  He picked her as he would the fresh fruit of a tree.  He felt as fresh in her presence as one who is taken out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of spring.

Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up.  She owed something to Drouet, she thought.  It did not seem more than yesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed.  She had the kindliest feelings for him in every way.  She gave him credit for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any binding influence keeping her for him as against all others.  In fact, such a thought had never had any grounding, even in Drouet’s desires.

The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy.  He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection followed tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly for his pleasure.  When he missed some old face, or found some door finally shut to him, it did not grieve him deeply.  He was too young, too successful.  He would remain thus young in spirit until he was dead.

As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning Carrie.  He had no definite plans regarding her, but he was determined to make her confess an affection for him.  He thought he saw in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding passion.  He wanted to stand near her and make her lay her hand in his—­he wanted to find out what her next step would be—­what the next sign of feeling for him would be.  Such anxiety and enthusiasm had not affected him for years.  He was a youth again in feeling—­a cavalier in action.