Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by this thought, angered by that—her own injustice, Hurstwood's, Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling fibres—an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift.
"Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a new idea, and putting his hand upon her.
"Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchief from her eyes.
"Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to do. Eh?"
Carrie made no answer.
"You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up now. You can't go anywhere."
Still he got nothing for his words.
"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get out."
Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the window.
"Will you do that?" he asked.
Still no answer.
"Will you?" he repeated.
She only looked vaguely into the street.
"Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?"
"I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.
"Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking about it. It'll be the best thing for you."
Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to
