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 thought, and then, with a touch of righteous sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl." Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught Hurstwood's eye.

He felt but very 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 thought of Carrie and their last meeting.
By George, he would have to explain this to Hurstwood.

Such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not have anything more attached to it than it really warranted.
For the first time he was troubled.