were settled in a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear those things out there. They—they wouldn't know where I got them."
"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?"
Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if he could.
"Why are you going home?" he asked.
"Oh, I can't get anything here."
"They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.
"They can't," said Carrie.
"I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take care of you."
Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.
"What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by the words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. "There isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something."
Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its upholstered depths a young lady.
"What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet.
