greenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been
carried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced
traveller, a brisk man of the world, had never come within such
close range before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart
new suit, and the air with which he did things, built up for her
a dim world of fortune, of which he was the centre. It disposed
her pleasantly toward all he might do.

He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,
Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H.
Drouet.

"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching
his name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on
my father's side."

She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a
letter from a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I
travel for," he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of
State and Lake." There was pride in his voice. He felt that it
was something to be connected with such a place, and he made her
feel that way.

"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to
write.

She looked at his hand.

"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four
West Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."