Chapter XLII. A Touch Of Spring: The Empty Shell

           

           ThosewholookuponHurstwood’sBrooklynventureasanerrorofjudgmentwillnonethelessrealisethenegativeinfluenceonhimofthefactthathehadtriedandfailed.Carriegotawrongideaofit.Hesaidsolittlethatsheimaginedhehadencounterednothingworsethantheordinaryroughness—quittingsosooninthefaceofthisseemedtrifling.Hedidnotwanttowork.

           Shewasnowoneofagroupoforientalbeautieswho,inthesecondactofthecomicopera,wereparadedbythevizierbeforethenewpotentateasthetreasuresofhisharem.Therewasnowordassignedtoanyofthem,butontheeveningwhenHurstwoodwashousinghimselfintheloftofthestreet-carbarn,theleadingcomedianandstar,feelingexceedinglyfacetious,saidinaprofoundvoice,whichcreatedarippleoflaughter:

           “Well,whoareyou?”

           ItmerelyhappenedtobeCarriewhowascourtesyingbeforehim.Itmightaswellhavebeenanyoftheothers,sofarashewasconcerned.Heexpectednoanswerandadullonewouldhavebeenreproved.ButCarrie,whoseexperienceandbeliefinherselfgaveherdaring,courtesiedsweetlyagainandanswered:

           “Iamyourstruly.”

           Itwasatrivialthingtosay,andyetsomethinginthewayshediditcaughttheaudience,whichlaughedheartilyatthemock-fiercepotentatetoweringbeforetheyoungwoman.Thecomedianalsolikedit,hearingthelaughter.

           “IthoughtyournamewasSmith,”hereturned,endeavouringtogetthelastlaugh.

           Carriealmosttrembledforherdaringaftershehadsaidthis.

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