The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of either. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from either quarter. One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass.
“Cad,” said he, catching her, “I believe you’re getting vain.”
“Nothing of the kind,” she returned, smiling.
“Well, you’re mighty pretty,” he went on, slipping his arm around her. “Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I’ll take you to the show.”
“Oh, I’ve promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition to-night,” she returned, apologetically.
“You did, eh?” he said, studying the situation abstractedly. “I wouldn’t care to go to that myself.”
“Well, I don’t know,” answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to break her promise in his favour.
Just then a knock came at their door and the maidservant handed a letter in.
“He says there’s an answer expected,” she explained.
“It’s from Hurstwood,” said Drouet, noting the superscription as he tore it open.