in loose brown
waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.

"I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do."

"Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right; that I
know."

The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his office
an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.

Chapter XIII. HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED--A BABEL OF TONGUES

It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and Hurstwood
in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his appearance. He had
been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her leniency had, in a way,
inflamed his regard. He felt that he must succeed with her, and that
speedily.

The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than
mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been withering
in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable that Carrie
represented a better order of woman than had ever attracted him before.
He had had no love affair since that which culminated in his marriage,
and since then time and the world had taught him how raw and erroneous
was his original judgment. Whenever he thought of it, he told himself
that, if he had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman.
At the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened his
respect for the sex. He maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded
on numerous experiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly
one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not
inspiring to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace
nature which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of that
under-world where grovel the beat-men of society (and he knew a
great deal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with
suspicion--a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He followed
them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was not so
dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally, he did not
attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He would take off
his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the vicious in her
presence--much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall will humble himself
before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to charity with a willing and
reverent hand. But he would not think much upon the question of why he
did so.

A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of wo