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第7章 万宝鼎（三）

　　Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing searchthat evening.

　　"How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the natureof his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any morethan necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out ofdanger.

　　"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volumeof affected shrewdness and assurance.

　　"Well, when he does come we'll call him in."

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

　　Carrie made no answer.

　　To-morrow came, and the next, and the next.

several occasions, whenDrouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in themirror, she was doing nothing more than recalling some littlegrace of the mouth or the eyes which she had witnessed inanother. Under his airy accusation she mistook this for vanityand accepted the blame with a faint sense of error, though, as amatter of fact, it was nothing more than the first subtleoutcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-create theperfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her.In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desireto reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.

　　A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY--HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE