Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless, wandering mental action which it represents—the love of light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure. “See that fellow coming in there?” said Hurstwood, glancing at a gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat, his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating. “No, where?” said Drouet. “There,” said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye, “the man with the silk hat.” “Oh, yes,” said Drouet, now affecting not to see. “Who is he?” “That’s Jules Wallace, the spiritualist.” Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested. “Doesn’t look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?” said Drouet. “Oh, I don’t know,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got the money, all right,” and a little twinkle passed over his eyes. “I don’t go much on those things, do you?” asked Drouet. “Well, you never can tell,” said Hurstwood. “There may be something to it. I wouldn’t bother about it myself, though. By the way,” he added, “are you going anywhere to-night?” “‘The Hole in the Ground,’” said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time. “Well, you’d better be going. It’s half after eight already,” and he drew out his watch. The crowd was already thinning out considerably—some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures—for the type of man there represented, at least—the ladies. “Yes, I will,” said Drouet. “Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,” said Hurstwood. “Sure,” said Drouet, elated. “You haven’t anything on hand for the night, have you?” added Hurstwood. “Not a thing.” “Well, come round, then.” “I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday,” remarked Drouet, by way of parting. “By George, that’s so, I must go and call on her before I go away.” “Oh, never mind her,” Hurstwood remarked. “Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you,” went on Drouet confidentially, and trying to impress his friend. “Twelve o’clock,” said Hurstwood. “That’s right,” said Drouet, going out. Thus was Carrie’s name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her unfolding fate. Chapter VI. THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN: A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY