When he did not come home it did not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for having the usual allurements of men—people to talk to, places to stop, friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was that Hurstwood was somewhat different. Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down, was used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened into it from each flat. If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient. Carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie’s innocent face. “That’s a real pretty woman who has moved in next door,” said Carrie to Hurstwood at the breakfast table. “Who are they?” asked Hurstwood. “I don’t know,” said Carrie. “The name on the bell is Vance. Some one over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she.” “Well, you never can tell what sort of people you’re living next to in this town, can you?” said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York opinion about neighbours. “Just think,” said Carrie, “I have been in this house with nine other families for over a year and I don’t know a soul. These people have been here over a month and I haven’t seen any one before this morning.” “It’s just as well,” said Hurstwood. “You never know who you’re going to get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company.” “I expect so,” said Carrie, agreeably. The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised her and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the probability of acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint recognition on this occasion, there would have been no future association.