"I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in the most useless manner.
Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.
"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty forehead. "You act so funny to-night."
"I feel funny," he answered.
They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject.
"What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.
"Me and Hurstwood—what do you mean?"
"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"
"A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you mean?"
"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here every night."
"No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you that?"
She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with denials.
"Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?"
"Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came."
Drouet paused for a moment and thought.
"I know what you told me," he said finally.
He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.
"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," said Carrie, recovering herself.
"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last
