Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertaking as she understood it. “Well,” he said, “that’s fine. I’m glad to hear it. Of course, you will do well, you’re so clever.” He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared. As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much of the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her misgivings—and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day—she was still happy. She could not repress her delight in doing this little thing which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all. Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl had capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour, force, and beauty to the possessor. Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She drew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned. Their affection for her naturally heightened their perception of what she was trying to do and their approval of what she did. Her inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot with every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod whereby the treasure of life was to be discovered. “Let’s see,” said Hurstwood, “I ought to know some of the boys in the lodge. I’m an Elk myself.” “Oh, you mustn’t let him know I told you.” “That’s so,” said the manager. “I’d like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don’t see how you can unless he asks you.” “I’ll be there,” said Hurstwood affectionately. “I can fix it so he won’t know you told me. You leave it to me.” This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth talking about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and flowers for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give the little girl a chance. Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort, and he was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon and the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen’s taste. John L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation. Drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his progress. “Well, sir,” said Hurstwood, “I was wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town again.” Drouet laughed. “If you don’t report more regularly we’ll have to cut you off the list.” “Couldn’t help it,” said the drummer, “I’ve been busy.”