Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that his mind was not exactly clear.
"That's you," he said at last, addressing her. "Wasn't good enough for you, was I? Huh!"
He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer possible with him.
"She's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "Let her give me some."
He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going for and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists. Suddenly it returned. The stage door! That was it.
He approached that entrance and went in.
"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he went over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.
"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. "Get out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist.
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was being hustled away. "I'm all right. I———"
The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so, Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vague sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.
"God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush from his worthless coat. "I—I hired such people as you once."
Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up—just one fierce, angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.
