"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me--that's what
you've done. You've brought your old friends out here under
false pretences. You've made me out to be--Oh," and with this
her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together
tragically.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer
quaintly.

"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth.
"No, of course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You
couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to
make me out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking
around with your information and your talk about what you have
done."

Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was
alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her
whole body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her
wrath.

"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his
part, but certain that he was wronged.

"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward,
that's what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you
wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing."

The drummer stared.