He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded. “I thought you had gone with Pearl,” she said to her lover. “I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road.” “You and Pearl had no disagreement?” “No—yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at ‘cloudy’ and ‘overcast.’” “And whose fault is that?” she said, easily. “Not mine,” he answered, pettishly. “I know I do all I can—I say all I can—but she——” This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with a grace which was inspiring. “But she is your wife,” she said, fixing her whole attention upon the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was again low and musical. “Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy.” She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly. Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with satisfaction. “To be my wife, yes,” went on the actor in a manner which was weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that he was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination. The acting of others could not affect them. “And you repent already?” she said, slowly. “I lost you,” he said, seizing her little hand, “and I was at the mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was your fault—you know it was—why did you leave me?” Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse in silence. Then she turned back. “Ray,” she said, “the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you continually war with your happiness?” The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience and the lover as a personal thing. At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, “Be to me as you used to be.” Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, “I cannot be that to you, but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you forever.” “Be it as you will,” said Patton. Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent.