“With no longings for what I may not have,” she breathed in conclusion—and it was almost a sigh—“my existence hidden from all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife.”
Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom, interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight.
In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation:
“I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must.”
There was a sound of horses’ hoofs outside, and then Ray’s voice saying: “No, I shall not ride again. Put him up.”
He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded.
“I thought you had gone with Pearl,” she said to her lover.
“I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road.”
“You and Pearl had no disagreement?”
“No—yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at ‘cloudy’ and ‘overcast.’”