They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was hilariously popular at that time.Before going, they made off for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable distance from Carrie's room.It was blowing up cold, and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness.A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea.Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December days at home.
She paused and wrung her little hands.
"What's the matter?" said Drouet.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling.
He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her arm.
"Come on," he said gently, "you're all right."
She turned to slip on her jacket.
"Better wear that boa about your throat to night."
They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west.The lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue.The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of the tall office buildings.The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty breaths.Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng bumped and jostled.Light overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down.Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing.It was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity.
Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition.They were looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls.Their clothes were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby.
Carrie recognised the glance and the girl.She was one of those who worked at the machines in the shoe factory.The latter looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked.
Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them.The old dress and the old machine came back.She actually started.
Drouet didn't notice until Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.
"You must be thinking," he said.
They dined and went to the theatre.That spectacle pleased Carrie immensely.The colour and grace of it caught her eye.
She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent people.When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare.
"Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips."Let's see."
"Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort of euphonious cry."Sixty-seven."
"Isn't it fine?" said Carrie.
"Great," said Drouet.He was as much affected by this show of finery and gayety as she.He pressed her arm warmly.Once she looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight.As they were moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!" They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies.
"You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet.
Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life.
They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch.
Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but there was no household law to govern her now.If any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here.Habits are peculiar things.They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion.The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness.If the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing."Now, bless me," says such a mind, "I have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again.