“I’m clear out,” he said to Carrie one afternoon. “I paid for some coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents.” “I’ve got some money there in my purse.” Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time. “We’re all out of flour,” she said; “you’d better get some this afternoon. We haven’t any meat, either. How would it do if we had liver and bacon?” “Suits me,” said Hurstwood. “Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that.” “Half ’ll be enough,” volunteered Hurstwood. She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not to notice it. Hurstwood bought the flour—which all grocers sold in 3½-pound packages—for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound of liver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance of twenty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. It did not escape her that the change was accurate. There was something sad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was something to eat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe he would get something yet. He had no vices. That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed suit, which took Carrie’s eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch of violets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie smiled back. “She can afford to dress well,” thought Carrie, “and so could I, if I could only keep my money. I haven’t a decent tie of any kind to wear.” She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively. “I’ll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don’t care what happens.” One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found nothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting of society’s fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to her neighbour and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in the matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in. “It’s warm to-night, isn’t it?” said this girl, arrayed in pink fleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shining shield. “Yes; it is,” said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her. “I’m almost roasting,” said the girl. Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and saw little beads of moisture. “There’s more marching in this opera than ever I did before,” added the girl. “Have you been in others?” asked Carrie, surprised at her experience. “Lots of them,” said the girl; “haven’t you?” “This is my first experience.”