ithout any money. Let me help
you," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here."

Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.

"I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way."

He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on.

"Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time,
"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?"

"Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You were to
blame."

"No, I wasn't," he answered.

"Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever told me such
a story as that."

"But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on Drouet,
anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her.

"I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn the
peace arrangement had taken.

"What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer,
stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You might let
me know where I stand, at least."

"I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whatever has
happened is your own fault."

"Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely and
experiencing a rush of feeling.

"Oh, stop!" said Carrie. "Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed
Drouet. "You may trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't
lead me. You can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool
any longer!"

He shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his valise
and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat, which he had
laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out.

"You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as he
reached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with a
jerk and closed it equally vigorously.

Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything else
at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly believe
her senses--so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. It was
not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A real flame of love
is a subtle thing. It burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to
fairylands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the
quality upon which it feeds.

Chapter XXIV. ASHES OF TINDER--A FACE AT THE WINDOW

That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer
House for a bed after