Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.

"So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I
am sick and cannot come."

She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was
something back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.

By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself
into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She
wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. She
was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard,
and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of
her wrath of the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked
about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary
muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her mouth.

On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home
in the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie
had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one
who sings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his
success, proud of Carrie. He could have been genial to all the
world, and he bore no grudge against his wife. He meant to be
pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of
youth and pleasure which had been restored to him.

So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and
comfortable appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper,
laid there by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the
dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and