"Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda--one hundred and fifty dollars.Quite a success the show seems to have made."
"Yes, indeed," returned Carrie.
Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and she heard the changed tone of address.
"How much?" said the same cashier, sharply.One, such as she had only recently been, was waiting for her modest salary.It took her back to the few weeks in which she had collected--or rather had received--almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly foreman in a shoe factory--a man who, in distributing the envelopes, had the manner of a prince doling out favours to a servile group of petitioners.She knew that out in Chicago this very day the same factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls working in long lines at clattering machines;
that at noon they would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour;
that Saturday they would gather, as they had when she was one of them, and accept the small pay for work a hundred times harder than she was now doing.Oh, it was so easy now! The world was so rosy and bright.She felt so thrilled that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think, wondering what she should do.
It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the desires are in the realm of affection.With her one hundred and fifty in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do.In itself, as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed.Her hotel bill did not require its use.Her clothes had for some time been wholly satisfactory.
Another day or two and she would receive another hundred and fifty.It began to appear as if this were not so startlingly necessary to maintain her present state.If she wanted to do anything better or move higher she must have more--a great deal more.