Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would
come on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the
artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now
Carrie came in alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had
had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for
nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. He
suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the power
that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back.
She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing
to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing.

"Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a
sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to
see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost
within the grasp."

She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting
listlessly upon the polished door-post.

Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself.
He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a
combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that
quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of
music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this
quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone.

"And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little
actress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any
home."