The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance and dignity 
about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate. Incandescent lights, 
the reflection of their glow in polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the 
walls, combined into one tone of light which it requires minutes of 
complacent observation to separate and take particular note of. The white 
shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of the ladies, diamonds, 
jewels, fine feathers—all were exceedingly noticeable. 
Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and accepted the seat 
which the head waiter provided for her. She was keenly aware of all the little 
things that were done—the little genuflections and attentions of the waiters 
and head waiter which Americans pay for. The air with which the latter 
pulled out each chair, and the wave of the hand with which he motioned 
them to be seated, were worth several dollars in themselves. 
Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and 
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the 
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. The 
large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army, sidelined 
with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous impossibility—
an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from; 
oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the half-dozen; entrées, fish, and 
meats at prices which would house one over night in an average hotel. One 
dollar fifty and two dollars seemed to be the most common figures upon this 
most tastefully printed bill of fare. 
Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken carried 
her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion when, for the 
first time, she sat with Drouet in a good restaurant in Chicago. It was only 
momentary—a sad note as out of an old song—and then it was gone. But in 
that flash was seen the other Carrie—poor, hungry, drifting at her wits' 

---

ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed world, from which she only 
wandered because she could not find work. 
On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue, set in 
ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of fruit and 
flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. On the ceilings were 
coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre where spread a cluster 
of lights—incandescent globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco 
tendrils of gilt. The floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in 
every direction were mirrors—tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors—reflecting 
and re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times. 
The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint of 
Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware, the name 
of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small, red-shaded 
candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments and faces, made 
them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an air of exclusiveness and 
elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped, touched, and trifled 
with things. The exclusively personal attention which he devoted to each 
one, standing half bent, ear to one side, elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup—
green turtle, yes. One portion, yes. Oysters—certainly—half-dozen—yes. 
Asparagus. Olives—yes." 
It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order for all, 
inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the company with open 
eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so that the rich spent their 
days and evenings. Her poor little mind could not rise above applying each 
scene to all society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the 
afternoon, in the theatre at the matinée, in the coaches and dining-halls at 
night. It must be glow and shine everywhere, with coaches waiting, and 
footmen attending, and she was out of it all. In two long years she had never 
even been in such a place as this. 
Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in former 
days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes, and 
had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the table in 
a wicker basket. 
Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an 
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose rather large and 
strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a good, wide, well-shaped 
mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one side. He seemed 
to have the least touch of boyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full 
grown. 

---

"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his reflection, "I 
sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this way." 
Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his 
seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which she had 
never pondered. 
"Do you?" she answered, interestedly. 
"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are worth. They 
put on so much show." 
"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said Mrs. 
Vance. 
"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the bill of fare, 
though he had ordered. 
Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his forehead. 
To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As he studied the 
crowd his eye was mild. 
"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to Carrie, 
and nodding in a direction. 
"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes. 
"Over there in the corner—way over. Do you see that brooch?" 
"Isn't it large?" said Carrie. 
"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames. 
"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be agreeable to 
this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps preceded it, the 
slightest shade of a feeling that he was better educated than she was—that 
his mind was better. He seemed to look it, and the saving grace in Carrie 
was that she could understand that people could be wiser. She had seen a 
number of people in her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely 
come to think of as scholars. This strong young man beside her, with his 
clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quite 
understand, but approved of. It was fine to be so, as a man, she thought. 
The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the time—
"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it. Vance had 
seen it discussed in some of the papers. 
"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I notice this 
fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking at Carrie as he 
spoke. 
"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly. 

---

"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This last story is 
pretty good." 
"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames. 
Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle. 
"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames. 
Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or had a great 
deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed that people 
thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed youth, who looked 
something like a student to her, made fun of it. It was poor to him, not 
worth reading. She looked down, and for the first time felt the pain of not 
understanding. 
Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke. He 
had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly thought of a 
high order—the right thing to think, and wondered what else was right, 
according to him. He seemed to notice that she listened and rather 
sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to her. 
As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they were 
hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little attentive 
things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation upon the diner, 
Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of Indianapolis in an 
intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind, which was finding its chief 
development in electrical knowledge. His sympathies for other forms of 
information, however, and for types of people, were quick and warm. The red 
glow on his head gave it a sandy tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. 
Carrie noticed all these things as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly 
young. This man was far ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, 
saner and brighter than Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she 
thought that he was exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his 
interest in her was a far-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the 
things that touched his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they 
appealed to her. 
"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and the 
supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend my 
money this way." 
"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing itself 
distinctly upon her for the first time. 
"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of thing 
to be happy." 

---

Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight with 
her. 
"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. He's so 
strong." 
Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these 
impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient, 
however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself upon 
Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he moved 
in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had seen on the 
stage—the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she knew not what. 
He had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast between this life 
and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference which concerned only 
him. 
As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and then 
they were off again, and so to the show. 
During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively. He 
mentioned things in the play which she most approved of—things which 
swayed her deeply. 
"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once. 
"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great thing." 
Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she could only be 
an actress—a good one! This man was wise—he knew—and he approved of 
it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would approve of her. She felt 
that he was good to speak as he had, although it did not concern her at all. 
She did not know why she felt this way. 
At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going back 
with them. 
"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling. 
"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third Street." 
Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked 
her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had 
thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours, the minutes of the 
world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them! 
She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it make? 
Still, the coach seemed lorn. 
When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did not 
know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference could 
it make—what difference could it make? 

---

Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were scattered 
loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then retreated. She did 
not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think. It was disagreeable to 
her. 
Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little hands 
were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and conflicting 
desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope and pity—of sorrow 
and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.