ould scarcely be said to retain the fire
of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. It was
strong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on Carrie's part,
we have seen. She might have been said to be imagining herself in love,
when she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows from the fact that
in each exists a bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure of
being loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with,
is one of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and
a natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It
persuades them that they are in love.

Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for
herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never
took the housemaid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one of
the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out.
To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed
was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet put
in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited and
full of determination to know all about her relations with Hurstwood.
Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong day,
he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not foresee
serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin.
Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and looking
out. "Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion
and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes you
hurry so?"

Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what
course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.

"When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.

"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?"

"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and I
thought you had gone out."

"So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk."

Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such
matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most
flagrant manner until at last she said:

"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking."

"Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude.

"Oh, nothing--nothing much."

"Well, then, what makes you look so?"