It was five in the afternoon when they met; it was Seven thirty before the last bone was picked.
Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his face was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught his own.
The latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouet and some woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion.
"Ah, the rascal," he though, and then, with a touch of righteous sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl." Drouet jumped from one easy though to another as he caught Hurstwood's eye.

He felt but every little misgiving, until he saw that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see.

Then some of the latter's impression forced itself upon him.

He though of Carrie and their last meeting.

By George, he would have to explain this to Hurstwood.