all, he was
not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house, but
he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into her
comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such
delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when Drouet
was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cosey little
quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby Drouet would be
led to inform Carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful.
Things were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change.
Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory.

The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--a
letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He was
not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing
affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at his
office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of delicately
coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept locked
in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the cleric and very
official-looking nature of his position. The five bartenders viewed with
respect the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and
penmanship.

Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law which
governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began to feel
those subtleties which he could find words to express. With every
expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings which
there found words took hold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy of all
the affection he could there express.

Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command
that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. Experience had
not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of
the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid lustre no suggestion
of the knowledge of disappointment. She had been troubled in a way by
doubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could be
traced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. The mouth had
the expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might be
upon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus ever present.
The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity
of formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself.

There was nothing bold