。， She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed toall the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There wasnothing evil in the fellow. He gave her the money out of a goodheart--out of a realisation of her want. He would not have giventhe same amount to a poor young man, but we must not forget thata poor young man could not, in the nature of things, haveappealed to him like a poor young girl. Femininity affected hisfeelings. He was the creature of an inborn desire. Yet nobeggar could have caught his eye and said, "My God, mister, I'mstarving," but he would gladly have handed out what wasconsidered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no moreabout it. There would have been no speculation, nophilosophising. He had no mental process in him worthy thedignity of either of those terms. In his good clothes and finehealth, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp. Deprived ofhis position, and struck by a few of the involved and bafflingforces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been ashelpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, aspitiable, if you will, as she.
What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped outevenings accompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive thenature and value of those little modish ways which women adoptwhen they would presume to be something. She looked in themirror and pursed up her lips, accompanying it with a little tossof the head, as she had seen the railroad treasurer's daughterdo. She caught up her skirts with an easy swing, for had notDrouet remarked that in her and several others, and Carrie wasnaturally imitative. She began to get the hang of those littlethings which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts.In short, her knowledge of grace doubled, and with it herappearance changed. She became a girl of considerable taste.。，
Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard thatDrouet was out of town. He was but slightly affected by theintelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topicswhich would interest Carrie. It was surprising--the ease withwhich he conducted a conversation. He was like every man who hashad the advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. He knewthat Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and, without the leasteffort, he fell into a train of observation which absorbed herfancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such adegree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confinedhimself almost exclusively to his observation of men andpleasures. He had been here and there, he had seen this andthat. Somehow he made Carrie wish to see similar things, and allthe while kept her aware of himself. She could not shut out theconsciousness of his individuality and presence for a moment. Hewould raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of something, andshe was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out, with theeasiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand foremphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmospherewhich suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, andseemed to make her clever. At least, she brightened under hisinfluence until all her best side was exhibited. She felt thatshe was more clever with him than with others. At least, heseemed to find so much in her to applaud. There was not theslightest touch of patronage. Drouet was full of it.。，
The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered thestore, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar littletan jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all therage that fall. Still she delighted to convince herself thatthere was nothing she would like better. She went about amongthe glass cases and racks where these things were displayed, andsatisfied herself that the one she thought of was the proper one.All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading herself that shecould buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to herselfthe actual condition. At last the noon hour was dangerouslynear, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return themoney.。，
Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on thatsombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its laboursduring the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its skyand its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leaflesstrees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the generalsolemnity of colour. There seems to be something in the chillbreezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfaresproductive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, northat superior order of mind which arrogates to itself allrefinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as muchas the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horsetugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter.It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate. Ifit were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush ofprofit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if thevarious merchants failed to make the customary display within andwithout their establishments; if our streets were not strung withsigns of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, wewould quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter laysupon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sunwithholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We aremore dependent upon these things than is often thought. We areinsects produced by heat, and pass without it.。， In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, shehelped Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then shesaid: