Carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways--of fortune's superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not so afflicted; and on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed. Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of the so-called inanimate！ Who shall translate for us the language of the stones?
"My dear," said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, "I fit you beautifully; don't give me up."
"Ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes; "how effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid."
Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she would not give them up. "Put on the old clothes--that torn pair of shoes," was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance?--be old-clothed and poor-appearing?--never！
Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we desire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the circumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a habit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. He had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge--not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw how they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper. He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him. He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this, their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.
"Did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to Carrie on the first day they took a walk together. "Fine stepper, wasn't she?"
Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended.
"Yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of possible defect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine, she must look at it more closely. Instinctively, she felt a desire to imitate it. Surely she could do that too.
When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and re-emphasized and admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly. Drouet was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. He could not see that it would be better to make her feel that she was competing with herself, not others better than herself. He would not have done it with an older, wiser woman, but in Carrie he saw only the novice. Less clever than she, he was naturally unable to comprehend her sensibility. He went on educating and wounding her, a thing rather foolish in one whose admiration for his pupil and victim was apt to grow.
Carrie took the instructions affably. She saw what Drouet liked; in a vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinion of a man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and generously distributed. She sees but one object of supreme compliment in this world, and that is herself. If a man is to succeed with many women, he must be all in all to each.
In her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in the same school.
In the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres, Mr. Frank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his wife, a pleasing-looking brunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sort very common in America today, who live respectably from hand to mouth. Hale received a salary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife, quite attractive, affected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sort of home life which means the care of a house and the raising of a family. Like Drouet and Carrie, they also occupied three rooms on the floor above.
Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations with her, and together they went about. For a long time this was her only companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the medium through which she saw the world. Such trivialities, such praises of wealth, such conventional expression of morals as sifted through this passive creature's mind, fell upon Carrie and for the while confused her.
On the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. The constant drag to something better was not to be denied. By those things which address the heart was she steadily recalled. In the apartments across the hall were a young girl and her mother. They were from Evansville, Indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroad treasurer. The daughter was here to study music, the mother to keep her company.
Carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter coming in and going out. A few times she had seen her at the piano in the parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. This young woman was particularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelled ring or two which flashed upon her white fingers as she played.
Now Carrie was affected by music. Her nervous composition responded to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harp vibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck. She was delicately moulded in sentiment, and answered with vague ruminations to certain wistful chords. They awoke longings for those things which she did not have. They caused her to cling closer to things she possessed. One short song the young lady played in a most soulful and tender mood. Carrie heard it through the open door from the parlour below. It was at that hour between afternoon and night when, for the idle, the wanderer, things are apt to take on a wistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys and returns with sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carrie sat at her window looking out. Drouet had been away since ten in the morning. She had amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which Drouet had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and by changing her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across the park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and life can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her new state, the strain from the parlour below stole upward. With it her thoughts became coloured and enmeshed. She reverted to the things which were best and saddest within the small limit of her experience. She became for the moment a repentant.
While she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him an entirely different atmosphere. It was dusk and Carrie had neglected to light the lamp. The fire in the grate, too, had burned low.
"Where are you, Cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her.
"Here," she answered.
There was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he could not hear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman out under such circumstances and console her for the tragedy of life. Instead, he struck a match and lighted the gas.
"Hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying."
Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.
"Pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that."
He took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely.
"Come on, now," he went on; "it's all right. Let's waltz a little to that music."
He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It made clear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her. She could not have framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made clear the difference between them, but she felt it. It was his first great mistake.
What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out evenings accompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the nature and value of those little modish ways which women adopt when they would presume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up her lips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she had seen the railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirts with an easy swing, for had not Drouet remarked that in her and several others, and Carrie was naturally imitative. She began to get the hang of those little things which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts. In short, her knowledge of grace doubled, and with it her appearance changed. She became a girl of considerable taste.
Drouet noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the new way of arranging her locks which she affected one morning.
"You look fine that way, Cad," he said.
"Do I?" she replied, sweetly. It made her try for other effects that selfsame day.
She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by her attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful carriage. How much influence the presence of that young woman in the same house had upon her it would be difficult to say. But, because of all these things, when Hurstwood called he had found a young woman who was much more than the Carrie to whom Drouet had first spoken. The primary defects of dress and manner had passed. She was pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of uncertainty, and with a something childlike in her large eyes which captured the fancy of this starched and conventional poser among men. It was the ancient attraction of the fresh for the stale. If there was a touch of appreciation left in him for the bloom and unsophistication which is the charm of youth, it rekindled now. He looked into her pretty face and felt the subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom. In that large clear eye he could see nothing that his blase nature could understand as guile. The little vanity, if he could have perceived it there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing.
"I wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how Drouet came to win her."
He gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the first glance.
The cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps on either hand. He folded his gloved hands and saw only the lighted chamber and Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight of youthful beauty.
"I'll have a bouquet for her," he thought. "Drouet won't mind." He never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for himself. He troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority. He was merely floating those gossamer threads of thought which, like the spider's, he hoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, he could not guess, what the result would be.
A few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one of his well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from a short trip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place and surprise Carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation and soon modified his original intention.
"Let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meeting which might trouble his way.
"Certainly," said his companion.
They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It was five in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before the last bone was picked.
Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his face was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught his own. The latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouet and some woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion.
"Ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl."
Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught Hurstwood's eye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. Then some of the latter's impression forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie and their last meeting. By George, he would have to explain this to Hurstwood. Such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not have anything more attached to it than it really warranted.
For the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication of which he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at him for being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood. Carrie would never hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yet he could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it--there was some faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. He broke up the dinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. Then he went home.
"He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thought Hurstwood to himself. "He thinks I think he cares for the girl out there."
"He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have just introduced him out there," thought Drouet.
"I saw you," Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouet drifted in to his polished resort, from which he could not stay away. He raised his forefinger indicatively, as parents do to children.
"An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming up from the station," explained Drouet. "She used to be quite a beauty."
"Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to jest.
"Oh, no," said Drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time."
"How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood.
"Only a few days."
"You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said. "I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for Joe Jefferson."
"Not me," answered the drummer. "Sure I'll come."
This pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Drouet no credit for any feelings toward Carrie whatever. He envied him, and now, as he looked at the well-dressed jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, the gleam of the rival glowed in his eye. He began to "size up" Drouet from the standpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to see where he was weak. There was no disputing that, whatever he might think of him as a good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt for him as a lover. He could hoodwink him all right. Why, if he would just let Carrie see one such little incident as that of Thursday, it would settle the matter. He ran on in thought, almost exulting, the while he laughed and chatted, and Drouet felt nothing. He had no power of analyzing the glance and the atmosphere of a man like Hurstwood. He stood and smiled and accepted the invitation while his friend examined him with the eye of a hawk.
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.
"You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me to-night," it ran in part. "It's my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are off."
"Well, what do you say to this?" asked Drouet, innocently, while Carrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies.
"You had better decide, Charlie," she said, reservedly.
"I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement upstairs," said Drouet.
"Oh, I can," returned Carrie without thinking.
Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress. She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to her most.
"Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?" she asked, as she came out with several articles of apparel pending.
"Sure," he returned, pleasantly.
She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was more agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses upstairs.
"I say," said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "we are exceedingly charming this evening."
Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.
"Now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.
If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification of the old term spick and span.
"Did you ever see Jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned toward Carrie in the box.
"I never did," she returned.
"He's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplace rendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he had heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was really hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally met, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before experienced. She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next glance or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention.
Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in comparison. Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven into Carrie's mind that here was the superior man. She instinctively felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the end of the third act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly soul, but otherwise defective. He sank every moment in her estimation by the strong comparison.
"I have had such a nice time," said Carrie, when it was all over and they were coming out.
"Yes, indeed," added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a battle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like the Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest provinces were being wrested from him.
"Well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned Hurstwood. "Good-night."
He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one to the other.
"I'm so tired," said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet began to talk.
"Well, you rest a little while I smoke," he said, rising, and then he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as it stood.
嘉莉善于学习有钱人的生活方式，模仿幸运儿们的种种浅薄表面的东西。看见一样东西，她就会问自己，如果适当地穿戴在她身上，会是什么样子。我们知道，这当然不是美好的情感，也不是智慧。智者不会为这种事情苦恼，愚人也不会为此不安。鲜衣美服对嘉莉有着巨大的诱惑力。每当她走近它们，它们似乎在狡猾地轻声自我夸耀，她心中的欲望使她乐意倾听这些声音。啊，这些无生命的东西却有多么动听的声音！
谁能替我们把这些宝石的声音翻译出来呢？
“亲爱的，”从帕特里奇公司买回来的花边领饰对她说，“你戴上我显得多美埃不要把我扔了。”“啊，这么小巧的脚，”那双新买的软牛皮鞋说道，“{穿上我，这脚多可爱埃要是没有我的帮助，那将多可惜埃”这些东西一旦拿在手上，穿在身上，她也许会在梦中想到放弃它们。这些东西来路不正的想法也许会使她非常痛苦，使她不愿去想这个问题。但是她绝不会舍得放弃这些东西。她的良心会向她呼吁：“穿上那些旧衣服，穿上那双旧鞋子吧！”但是这些呼吁是徒劳的。她也许能克服对饥饿的恐惧，去过从前的日子。在良心的最后压力下，她也许能克服对做苦工和过狭隘生活的抵触情绪。但是要她损害自己的容颜。要她穿上破衣烂衫，露出一副寒伧相吗？绝对办不到！
杜洛埃助长了她在这个问题和其他相关问题上的看法，进一步削弱了她对物质引诱的抵抗能力。如果别人的见解正符合我们心中的愿望，这种情况是很容易发生的。他发自肺腑地一再赞扬她的美貌，他又那么仰慕地看着她，使她充分意识到美貌的重要。眼下她还不必像漂亮女人那样搔首弄姿。但是这方面的知识她学得很快。像他那一类人一样，杜洛埃有个习惯，喜欢在街上观察那些穿着时髦或者长相漂亮的女人，对她们评头品足。他具有女性那种对服饰的喜爱，因此在这个问题上很有眼光，尽管他在智力问题上一窍不通。他注意到她们如何迈出小巧的脚，如何微微扬起下巴，如何富有曲线美地用优美的姿势扭动身子。对他来说，一个女人风骚巧妙地摆动臀部的姿势就像美酒的色泽对酒徒那样具有吸引力。他会回过头去，用目光久久追踪着渐渐远去的身影。他会孩子般地以一股不加遏止的热情大大激动起来。他爱慕女人们自己珍视的东西--翩翩风度。他像一名忠实的信徒，和她们一起拜倒在这神龛面前。
“你看到那个刚刚走过去的姑娘吗？”第一天他们一起上街散步时，他就对她说道，“她走路姿势很美，对不对？”嘉莉注意看着被推崇的优美姿态。
“不错，她走路姿势很好看。”她愉快地回答，脑子里就想到也许自己在这方面有些小缺陷。既然那人的步态好看，她得更仔细地看看。本能地，她就想模仿那种姿态。当然，她也能这么走的。
像她那么聪明的姑娘一旦看到某些东西被一再强调，受到推崇和赞赏，就会看出这种事的诀窍来，并付诸实践。杜洛埃不够精明，看不出这么做太没有策略了。他本应该让嘉莉和她自己比，而不是和比她自己强的女人比，这样事情会好得多。如果他是在和一个阅历丰富的女子打交道，他不会干出这种蠢事来的。但是他把嘉莉看作一个初出道的黄毛丫头，又没有她聪明，无法理解她的感情。于是他继续开导她，也继续伤害她。对一个自己日益爱慕的女子不断开导和伤害，实在是一件蠢事。
嘉莉心平气和地接受了他的教诲。她看出杜洛埃喜欢的是什么，模模糊糊地也看到了他的缺点。一个女人得知一个男人公然到处留情，她对他的看法就会下降。她认为世上只有一个人配受最高的恭维，那就是她自己。如果一个男人能获得众多女子的欢心，他一定惯于对她们个个灌蜜糖。
在他们住的公寓大楼里，她接受了属于同一性质的教诲。
同一个楼里住着一个戏院职员海尔先生。他是斯坦达戏院的经理。他的妻子是一个年纪３５岁浅黑型的可爱女人。他们属于如今在美国很普通的那一种人：靠工资过着体面生活的的人。海尔先生每星期４５元薪水。他的妻子很有魅力，模仿少年人的心思，反对过那种操持家务，养儿育女的家庭生活。像杜洛埃和嘉莉一样，他们租了三室一套的房间，在嘉莉楼上。
嘉莉搬来不久，海尔太太就和她有了交往，一同出去走走。很长时间，这是她唯一的同伴。经理太太的闲聊成了她认识外部世界的渠道。那些浅薄无聊的东西，那种对财富的崇尚，那些传统的道德观念，从不动脑筋的经理太太那里像筛子一样漏了出来，使嘉莉一时头脑糊涂起来。
另一方面，她自己的情感却是一种净化心灵的力量。她内心有一种不断促使她努力向上的力量，这一点是不能否认的。
那些情感通过心灵不断地召唤着她。门厅对面的套房里住着一个年轻的姑娘和她母亲。她们是从印第安纳州伊凡斯维城来的，一个铁路会计师的妻子和女儿。女儿来这儿学音乐，母亲来陪伴她。
嘉莉没有和她们结识。但是她看到那个女儿出出进进。有几次她看到她坐在客厅的钢琴前，还经常听到她弹琴。这少女就其身份而言，穿得过份考究。手指上戴着一两枚宝石戒指，弹琴时戒指在她雪白的手指上闪光。
嘉莉现在受到了音乐的感染。她的易感的气质和某些乐曲发生了共鸣，就好像竖琴的某根弦会随着钢琴上相应的琴键按动发生共鸣一样。她的情感天生细腻，某些忧伤的曲子在她心里引起了朦胧的沉思，勾起她对自己欠缺的东西的渴望，也使她更依恋自己拥有的美好东西。有一首短歌那位年轻的小姐弹得特别温柔缠绵。嘉莉听到从敞着门的楼下客厅里传出了这支歌。那正是白昼与夜色交替之际。在失业者和流浪汉的眼里，这种时刻给世事蒙上了一层忧伤沉思的色调。思绪转回遥远的过去，带回几束业已干枯的残花，那些消逝的欢乐。嘉莉坐在窗前朝外看着。杜洛埃从上午１０点出去还没有回来。她一个人散了一会儿步，看了一会儿贝塞·Ｍ·克莱写的一本书，是杜洛埃丢在那里的。但是她并不怎么喜欢这本书。然后她换了晚装。当她坐在那里看着对面的公园时，正像渴求变化和生命的自然界在这种时刻的情绪一样，她心里充满着企盼和忧愁。正当她思索着自己的新处境时，从楼下的客厅里悄悄传上来那支曲子，使她深受感动，百感交集。她不禁回忆起在她有限的生涯中那些最美好最悲伤的事情，一时间她悔恨自己的失足。
她正沉浸在这种情绪中，杜洛埃走了进来，带来一种完全不同的气氛。暮色已经降临，但是嘉莉忘了点灯。炉栅里的火也已经很微弱了。
“你在哪里，嘉德？”他用他给她取的爱称，叫着。
“在这里，”她说。
她的声音里流露出哀怨和孤独的情绪，可是他没有听出来。他身上没有诗人的气质，不会在这种场合下弄清女人的心思，在人生的悲哀中给她以安慰。相反，他划了根火柴，点亮了煤气灯。
“喂，”他叫了起来，“你在淌眼泪埃”
她的眼睛里含着残留的泪痕，还没有干。
“嘘！”他说，“你不该哭的。”
他握着她的手，从他的自我主义出发，好心肠地认为她之所以哭，也许是因为他不在家她感到孤单的缘故。
“好了好了，”他继续说，“现在一切都好了。我们伴着这音乐来跳一圈华尔兹舞吧。”再没有比这更不合时宜的提议了。嘉莉马上看清他无法理解她的感情，给她以同情。她还无法清楚地指出他的缺点或者他们之间的差别，但是她已经感到了。这是他犯的第一个大错。
傍晚，那个女孩在母亲的陪伴下迈着轻快的步子外出，杜洛埃对她的风度大加赞赏。这使嘉莉意识到女性那些时髦的姿态和动作的性质和意义：它们使人显得气度高雅，不同凡响。她在镜子面前，学着铁路会计师女儿的样子，噘起嘴唇，同时把头微微一常她轻盈地一摆身子提起裙子--杜洛埃不是在这女孩和别的女人身上一再指出这个动作吗，而嘉莉是天生善于模仿的。她开始学会了那些美貌虚荣的女子无一例外会做的小动作。总之，她关于举止风度的知识大大增加了。
她的外表也随之发生了变化：她成了一个风韵不凡的姑娘。
杜洛埃注意到了这些变化。那天早上他看到她头发上的新蝴蝶结和新发式。
“你那样鬈头发很好看，嘉德，”他说。
“是吗？”她甜甜地回答。在同一天她又试了一些别的时髦玩意儿。
她的步履比以前飘逸，这是模仿铁路会计师女儿的翩翩风度的结果。这同一楼的年轻小姐对她的影响真是一言难荆正是因为这些，当赫斯渥来访时，他所看到的那个年轻女人已不再是杜洛埃第一次搭讪的嘉莉了。她的服饰上和举止上的缺点已经基本上纠正了。她秀丽可爱，举止优美，由于缺乏自信而羞羞答答。大大的眼睛里带着一种孩子般的表情，这表情一下子吸引住了这位惺惺作态的正人君子。这种清新的魅力古而有之。他的情感还保留着一份对天真烂漫的青春魅力的赏识，现在这份情感被重新点燃了。他看着她的美丽的脸颊，感觉到微妙的生命之光正从那里散发出来。从她清澈的大眼睛里看不到一丝他耽于声色的天性看惯的狡猾。她的那点小小的虚荣心，他如果能看出来的话，只会使他感到有趣。
“真奇怪，”当他坐着马车离去时，心里在想，“杜洛埃这家伙怎么能把她弄到手。”他一眼就看出她的情感比杜洛埃高雅。
马车在颠簸着前进，两旁的煤气路灯迅速向后退去。他的戴了手套的双手十指交叉着抱在胸前，眼前只看见灯光下的房间和嘉莉的脸，心里想着妙龄美人给人的乐趣。
“我要送她一束花，”他心里盘算着，“杜洛埃不会介意的。”他在心里一刻也没有对自己掩盖他迷恋她的事实。他并不为杜洛埃的先得手这事实担心。他只是让自己的思绪像游丝般地飘浮着，指望这思绪像蜘蛛丝一样，会挂在什么地方。
他不知道也不可能猜出结果会是什么。
几星期以后，到处旅行的杜洛埃刚从俄玛哈短程出差回来，在芝加哥街上遇到一个穿着华丽的女人，是他众多老相识之一。他本来打算赶快回奥登广场给嘉莉一个惊喜，现在和这个熟人谈上瘾了，就改变了初衷。
“走，一起吃饭去，”他说道，一点也没想到有可能碰到熟人，惹起麻烦。
“好啊，”他的同伴说。
他们一起到一个适宜交谈的高级饭店去，相遇时还是下午５点钟，等吃完饭已是７点半了。
快讲完一件小趣事时，杜洛埃的脸上绽开了笑容。正在这时，他和赫斯渥的眼光相遇了。赫斯渥正和几个朋友一起进来，一看到杜洛埃和一个女人在一起，而这女人不是嘉莉，他心里马上得出了结论。
“哼，这坏蛋，”他心里想，带着几分义愤和同情，“这么无情无义，太让那个小姑娘伤心了。”杜洛埃的目光与赫斯渥相遇以后，并没有在意，仍在轻松地想这想那，直到他发现赫斯渥故意装着没看见他，才有点担心起来。接着他注意到后者的一些表情。他想起了嘉莉以及他们上次的见面。老天，他必须跟赫斯渥解释解释。和一个老朋友偶然聊上半个小时不应该引起大惊小怪，把它看得过于严重的。
他有生以来第一次感到良心不安了。这样复杂的道德问题不是他能弄明白的。赫斯渥会笑话他用情不专，他会和赫斯渥一起哈哈大笑。嘉莉不会听到的，现在共餐的女友也不会知道的。但是他不能不感到事情很糟糕--他的名誉沾上了污点，可是他实际上并没有做什么坏事。他无精打采地结束了晚餐，送女友上了车，然后回家了。
“他一点没向我提其他新结识的这些情人嘛，”赫斯渥心里想，“他以为我把他看成真心爱那个小姑娘的。”
“我刚刚把他介绍给嘉莉，他该不会认为我还在寻花问柳吧，"杜洛埃心里想。
“我那天看见你了，”下一次杜洛埃走进那家他必去的高级酒家时，赫斯渥温和地对他说。像父母对小孩说话一样，他暗示地伸出了食指。
“那是我的一个老相识。我刚出车站时撞见的，”杜洛埃解释道，“她以前是个大美人。”“不是还很有点吸引力吗？”另一个假装开玩笑地说。
“唉，不是的，”杜洛埃说，“这一次只是躲不掉而已。”“你这次可以在这里呆几天？”赫斯渥问。
“只能呆几天。”
“你一定要带那个小姑娘出来和我一起吃顿饭，”他说，“你把她关在家里恐怕要让她闷坏了。我来订一个包厢，我们一起去看乔·杰佛逊的戏。”“我没有关她，”推销员说，“我一定来。”赫斯渥听了这话很高兴。他不相信杜洛埃对嘉莉有什么感情。看着这个穿着华丽无忧无虑的推销员，他不由妒忌起这个他曾喜欢的人。他开始用情敌的目光，从机智和魅力的角度来打量他，要找出他的弱点所在。毫无疑问，他也许可以把杜洛埃看做好人，但是如果要拿他当情人看，就有点让人看不起。他完全可以把他骗了。对了，如果能让嘉莉看到星期四那类小意外，这事情就算定下来了。他笑着聊天时，脑子里却在转这些念头，几乎有点得意忘形了。可是杜洛埃一点没有觉察，他没有能力分析像赫斯渥那种人的目光和情绪。他站在那里，微笑着接受了邀请，而他的朋友却在用老鹰般的目光打量他。
这出人物关系特别复杂的喜剧中的女主人公这时并没有在想他们中的任何一个。她还在忙于调整自己的思想和感情，以便适应新环境，眼下还没有为这两人感到烦恼和痛苦的危险。
一天晚上，杜洛埃看见她在镜子前穿衣。
“嘉德，”他一把拉住她说，“相信你变虚荣了。”“没这回事，”她含笑回答。
“是的，你真漂亮极了。”他说着用胳膊搂住她，“穿上你那件深蓝套装，我带你看戏去。”“哎呀，我已经答应海尔太太今晚和她一起去看博览会，”她抱歉地回答。
“你答应了吗？”他说，心不在焉地想着这情况。“要是换了我，我才不会去看博览会呢。”“我不知道，”嘉莉回答，不知如何是好，不过也没有提出取消约会陪他看戏去。
就在这时有人敲门，那个女仆递进一封信来。
“他说要回音的，”女仆解释说。
“是赫斯渥来的信，”杜洛埃拆信时，看着信封上的名字说道。
“你们今晚一定要和我一起去看乔·杰佛逊的戏，”信里说，“我们那天说定的，这次该我做东，别的安排都不算。”“你看，这事怎么办呢？”杜洛埃天真地问。嘉莉满心想答应。
“你决定吧，查理，”她有所保留地回答。
“我想，要是你能取消和楼上的约会，我们还是去的好，”杜洛埃说。
“没问题，”嘉莉不加思索地回答。
杜洛埃找信纸写回信的当儿，嘉莉去换衣服。她几乎没想一想为什么对这个邀请这么感兴趣。
“我要不要把头发梳成昨天那种发型？”她手里搭拉着好几件衣服出来问道。
“当然好了，”他很高兴地回答。
看到他一点没有疑心，她放心了。她并不认为她愿意去的原因是因为赫斯渥对她有吸引力。她只是感到赫斯渥、杜洛埃和她三个人一起玩的想法比别的两个安排更有趣。她仔细地打扮好，向楼上道了歉，就出发了。
“我得说，”他们走到戏院大厅时，赫斯渥说，“今晚你特别地迷人。”在他赞赏的目光下嘉莉感到心跳。
“现在跟我来吧。”他说着带头穿过休息处进了正厅。
如果说有什么盛装展览，那就是在戏院里了。俗话用“一水没洗”形容衣服挺括簇新，在这里一点不假。
“你看过杰佛逊演的戏吗？”在包厢里，他侧身朝嘉莉问道。
“没有，”她回答。
“啊，他真是一个有趣的演员，很讨人喜欢。”他继续说着，用这些人所能想到的泛泛赞语介绍着。他打发杜洛埃去取节目单，把他听来的有关杰佛逊的事说给她听。嘉莉感到说不出的快乐。这里的环境，包厢里的装饰，她同伴的风度--这一切像催眠术一样把她迷住了。好几次他们的目光偶然相遇，于是一股情感的热流从他眼里向她袭来，这是她从来没有经历过的。她无法解释这一点，因为下一次赫斯渥的目光和手势中又似乎只有亲切和殷勤，对她没有一点意见了。
杜洛埃也参加谈话，但是相形之下，他一点也不风趣。赫斯渥让他们两个人都感到愉快，所以嘉莉认为他不同凡响。她本能地感到他比杜洛埃坚强高雅，虽然他同时又那么其实。到第三幕结束时，她已认定杜洛埃只是个好人，在别的方面尚有欠缺。在明显的对比下，她对杜洛埃的评价越来越低。
“今晚我过得很愉快，”戏结束后出戏院时，嘉莉说。
“是啊，真令人愉快，”杜洛埃加了一句。他一点也不知道，已经打了一场战争，他的防线被削弱了。他就像中国皇帝坐在龙庭上自鸣得意，不知道他的最好的省份已被人夺去了。
“你们帮我度过了一个美好的夜晚，否则我会感到很乏味的，”赫斯渥说道，“再见。”他握住嘉莉的小手，一阵感情的电流在他们之间流过。
“我累了，”当杜洛埃开口说话时，嘉莉说道，身子朝后依在车上的座位上。
“那你休息一会儿，我去抽根烟。”他说着站了起来，愚蠢地走到电车前面的平台去，对这些爱情的游戏听之任之。