Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He never tried. He did not even consult the ads in the papers any more.
Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.
“What makes you put so much butter on the steak?” he asked her one evening, standing around in the kitchen.
“To make it good, of course,” she answered.
“Butter is awful dear these days,” he suggested.
“You wouldn’t mind it if you were working,” she answered.
He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her.
That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie’s absence.
“That’s funny,” he said; “maybe she’s sitting up.”
He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.