"How much did you say he took?" said Carrie.
"Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though."
Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time.
At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable.
"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" he asked.
Carrie smiled to think of it.
"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he added ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and I were going to get along fine those days."
"You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of coldness.
"Won't you let me tell you—--"
"No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting ready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now."
"Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of time."
"No," said Carrie, gently.
