Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest—though never delight—than those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity—or that self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity—was not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation, being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She had not had fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not had adulation and affectionate propositions before. Now they had come. Wherefore? She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness and indifference. “Do look here,” she remarked to Lola. “See what this man says: ‘If you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,’” she repeated, with an imitation of languor. “The idea. Aren’t men silly?” “He must have lots of money, the way he talks,” observed Lola. “That’s what they all say,” said Carrie, innocently. “Why don’t you see him,” suggested Lola, “and hear what he has to say?” “Indeed I won’t,” said Carrie. “I know what he’d say. I don’t want to meet anybody that way.” Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes. “He couldn’t hurt you,” she returned. “You might have some fun with him.” Carrie shook her head. “You’re awfully queer,” returned the little, blue-eyed soldier. Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary had not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her. Without money—or the requisite sum, at least—she enjoyed the luxuries which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places seemed to open quite without the asking. These palatial chambers, how marvellously they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs. Vance in the Chelsea—these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes, offers of fortune. And still her dreams ran riot. The one hundred and fifty! the one hundred and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin’s cave it seemed to be. Each day, her head almost turned by developments, her fancies of what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew and multiplied. She conceived of delights which were not—saw lights of joy that never were on land or sea. Then, at last, after a world of anticipation, came her first installment of one hundred and fifty dollars. It was paid to her in greenbacks—three twenties, six tens, and six fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it. “Ah, yes,” said the latter, when she applied; “Miss Madenda—one hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have made.” “Yes, indeed,” returned Carrie. Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and she heard the changed tone of address.