Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the power that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing. "Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp." She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting listlessly upon the polished door-post. Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone. "And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little actress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home." She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a thought to them. "With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in conclusion--and it was almost a sigh--"my existence hidden from all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife." Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom, interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pears at the throat. Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight. In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation: "I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must." There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice saying: "No, I shall not ride again. Put him up."