Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood, onceshe got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days for her tofully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her husband'sbusiness meant commonplace struggle and privation. Her mind went back toher early venture in Chicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heartrevolted. That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible. Shewished she knew a way out. Her recent experiences with the Vances hadwholly unfitted her to view her own state with complacence. The glamourof the high life of the city had, in the few experiences afforded her bythe former, seized her completely. She had been taught how to dress andwhere to go without having ample means to do either. Now, thesethings--ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind.The more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed thisother. And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to removethis other world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus mightextend, appealingly, his hands.

So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He had gone,but here was his word that riches were not everything; that there was agreat deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage was good, andthe literature she read poor. He was a strong man and clean--how muchstronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only half formulatedto herself, but the difference was painful. It was something to whichshe voluntarily closed her eyes.

During the last three months of the Warren Street connection, Hurstwoodtook parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business advertisements.It was a more or less depressing business, wholly because of the thoughtthat he must soon get something or he would begin to live on the fewhundred dollars he was saving, and then he would have nothing toinvest--he would have to hire out as a clerk.

Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity, waseither too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winter wascoming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a generalfeeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so. In hisworry, other people's worries became apparent. No item about a firmfailing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedlyof starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning papers.Once the "World" came out with a flaring announcement about "80,000people out of employment in New York this winter," which struck as aknife at his heart.

"Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is."

This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world hadseemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to see similarthings in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did not hold hisattention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hovering along thehorizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscure his lifewith chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forget and braceup. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally:

"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks more. Evenif worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for six months."

Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionallyreverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for thefirst three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he could getalong without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now, however,when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she wasdoing, how his children were getting along. He could see them living asnicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property.

"By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely thought tohimself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything."

As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to histaking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had hedone--what in the world--that should bar him out this way and heap suchdifficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he wascomfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him.

"She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn't do somuch, if everybody could just know."

There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was onlya mental justification he was seeking from himself--something that wouldenable him to bear his state as a righteous man.

One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed up, heleft the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the"Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but did notenter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could notabide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained many showyresorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomelyfitted up. He talked around about investments for fully three-quartersof an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor,and that was the reason he wished a partner.

"Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interesthere?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit.

"Three thousand," said the man.

Hurstwood's jaw fell.

"Cash?" he said.

"Cash."

He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really buy;but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think it over,and came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his condition in avague way.

"I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn't talkright."

The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up adisagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east side,near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing dim, whenhe reached there. A portly German kept this place.

"How about this ad. of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather objected tothe looks of the place.

"Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over."

"Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around.

The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.

"The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to advertisefor?"

Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had only alight in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a match and,lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her.She came to the door and looked in.

"It's you, is it?" she said, and went back.

"Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he hadbought.

Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome whengloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally darkof skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite adisagreeable figure.

Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.

"Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something.

He did not answer, reading on.

She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched.

"Won't you eat now?" she asked.

He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, exceptfor the "Pass me's."

"It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a time.

"Yes," he said.

He only picked at his food.

"Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take up thesubject which they had discussed often enough.

"Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification ofsharpness.

This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself.

"You needn't talk like that," she said.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, butletting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie left herseat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was hurt.

"Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "Eatyour dinner."

She passed, not answering.

He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on hiscoat.

"I'm going down town, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out of sortsto-night."

She did not answer.

"Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to-morrow."

He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at herdishes.

"Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out.

This was the first strong result of the situation between them, but withthe nearing of the last day of the business the gloom became almost apermanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about thematter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. It gotso that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not Hurstwoodwho felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him.This he noticed. It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent tohim. He made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a gianttask, and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by hermanner and made it more impossible.

At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who hadgot his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and raging stormwould have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find thatit was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature waspleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn't soterrible, after all.

"Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth."

Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.

Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have lost aload.

"I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and thenI'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking about. Ithink I can get something, now this thing's off my hands."

He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there. Theyhad made all arrangements to share according to their interests. When,however, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, andreturned, his elation had departed. As much as he had objected to theplace, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. He wished thatthings were different.

Shaughnessy was coolly business-like.

"Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the change anddivide."

They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided.

"Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort to begenial.

"So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.

Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded.

Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride up,Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood.

"Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively.

"I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat.

As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now.They ate and talked a little.

"Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie.

"No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up."

"It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie, prompted byanxiety and hope.

"I guess I will," he said reflectively.

For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the morningand sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself with thethought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could still makesome advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to some brewery,which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which they leased, andget them to help him. Then he remembered that he would have to pay outseveral hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have nothing leftfor his monthly expenses. It was costing him nearly eighty dollars amonth to live.

"No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll get somethingelse and save up."

This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment hebegan to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place? Whereshould he get such a position? The papers contained no requests formanagers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were either secured bylong years of service or were bought with a half or third interest. Intoa place important enough to need such a manager he had not money enoughto buy.

Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and hisappearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding.People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age, stoutand well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable owner ofsomething, a man from whom the common run of mortals could well expectgratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and comfortably built,walking was not easy. He had not been used to exercise for many years.His legs tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at theclose of the day, even when he took street cars in almost everydirection. The mere getting up and down, if long continued, producedthis result.

The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he wellunderstood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded hissearch. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he wasashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he hesitated,wondering what to do.

He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had had noexperience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no acquaintances orfriends in that line to whom he could go. He did know some hotel ownersin several cities, including New York, but they knew of his dealingswith Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them. He thought of otherlines suggested by large buildings or businesses which he knewof--wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--buthe had had no experience.

How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have togo personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then,distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking forsomething to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could notdo that.

He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being cold,stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that anydecent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby. This wasin the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most important hotelsin the city. Taking a chair here was a painful thing to him. To think heshould come to this! He had heard loungers about hotels calledchair-warmers. He had called them that himself in his day. But here hewas, despite the possibility of meeting some one who knew him, shieldinghimself from cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby.

"I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of mystarting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'llthink of some places and then look them up."

It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes open,but he put this out of his mind. Bartender--he, the ex-manager!

It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he wenthome. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was afeeble imitation. The rocking-chair in the dining-room was comfortable.He sank into it gladly, with several papers he had bought, and began toread.

As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner, Carriesaid:

"The man was here for the rent to-day."

"Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood.

The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this wasFebruary 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in hispocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothingis coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks atthe one possible saving cure. Then he counted off twenty-eight dollars.

"Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again.

He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it--the relieffrom walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these floods oftelegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part. Here was ayoung, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper drawing, suinga rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for divorce. Here wasanother item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow offPrince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright column told of the doingsin the theatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, themanagers making announcements. Fannie Davenport was just opening at theFifth Avenue. Daly was producing "King Lear." He read of the earlydeparture for the season of a party composed of the Vanderbilts andtheir friends for Florida. An interesting shooting affray was on in themountains of Kentucky. So he read, read, read, rocking in the warm roomnear the radiator and waiting for dinner to be served.