“Who?” he said.
“Well, Mrs. Vance,” said Carrie.
“She needn’t see me,” he answered, sullenly.
This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.
“Oh,” she thought, “there he sits. ‘She needn’t see me.’ I should think he would be ashamed of himself.”
The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie’s door. To her subsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie’s. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him.
“Why,” he said, actually stammering, “how do you do?”
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether to invite her in or not.
“Is your wife at home?” she inquired.
“No,” he said, “Carrie’s out; but won’t you step in? She’ll be back shortly.”