Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change. He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. If anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt. Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to Drouet alone. The scene was one in “The Covenant,” in which the wife listened to the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband. “Served him right,” said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen expiation of her error. “I haven’t any pity for a man who would be such a chump as that.” “Well, you never can tell,” returned Hurstwood gently. “He probably thought he was right.” “Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he wants to keep her.” They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy crush about the entrance way. “Say, mister,” said a voice at Hurstwood’s side, “would you mind giving me the price of a bed?” Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie. “Honest to God, mister, I’m without a place to sleep.” The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see. He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart. Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot. Chapter XV. THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES: THE MAGIC OF YOUTH The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of indifference. Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again. There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover’s feet. When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes—and her eyes were young. When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife’s voice, when the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which bound his feet. “George,” said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, “we want you to get us a season ticket to the races.” “Do you want to go to all of them?” he said with a rising inflection. “Yes,” she answered.