ious sensory ways. She was
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving him
greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact, she was
not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when
he should have duly considered it. When he did not come home it did
not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for
having the usual allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop,
friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy
himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her
state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was
that Hurstwood was somewhat different.

Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street
the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved
a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie
afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the
arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by
the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the
like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down,
was used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened
into it from each flat.

If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor
at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the
dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper,
the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age,
was there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and dressing-gown,
with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and
good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The
newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient.
Carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling
stirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.

"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie to
Hurstwood at the breakfast table.

"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.

"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some one
over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."

"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in
this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York
opinion about neighbours.

"Just think," said Carrie, "I hav