"Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.

"I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and
finding nothing at which to catch.

As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here
was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence
over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that
she was possessed of a lively passion for him. She was still the
victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes.
She looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and
sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a
delight to observe. She could not resist the glow of his
temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from
feeling what he felt.

And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What
did he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his
eyes, or what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she
softened, and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was
asking herself if Drouet had told him they were not married.
There was never anything at all convincing about what Drouet
said.

And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of
bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently
sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what
he said. What should she do? She went on thinking this,
answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether