Sister Carrie | Page 5

glance from her. There is another line at
which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line the
individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious
of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape
trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of her
shoes.
"Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your town.
Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."
"Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their
show windows had cost her.
At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few
minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing,
his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.
"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you
relatives?"
"I am going to visit my sister," she explained.
"You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard.
They are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New
York--great. So much to see--theatres, crowds, fine houses--oh, you'll
like that."

There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her
insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected
her. She realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet
there was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth.
There was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual with
his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of some
popular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet
attention of this sort had its weight.
"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at
one turn of the now easy conversation.
"I don't know," said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the possibility of
her not securing employment rising in her mind.
"Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes.
There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He
recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and
beauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the one
standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was
simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the
many little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings.
Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion--had she ever
had one-- would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so
steadily.
"Why do you ask?" she said.
"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock at
our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round."
"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether I
can. I shall be living with my sister, and----"
"Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and a little
pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your address there?"

She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.
He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was
filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. It
impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one
attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the
world, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the
shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did things,
built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the centre. It
disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.
He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,
Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H.
Drouet.
"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his name.
"It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father's side."
She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter from
a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for," he went on,
pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake." There was pride
in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected with such a
place, and he made her feel that way.
"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.
She looked at his hand.
"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West
Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."
He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be