He had gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything; that there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage was good, and the literature she read poor.

He was a strong man and clean--how much stronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only half formulated to herself, but the difference was painful.

It was something to which she voluntarily closed her eyes.
During the last three months of the Warren Street connection, Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business advertisements.
It was a more or less depressing business, wholly because of the thought that he must soon get something or he would begin to live on the few hundred dollars he was saving, and then he would have nothing to invest--he would have to hire out as a clerk.
Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity, was either too expensive or too wretched for him.

Besides, winter was coming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so.

In his worry, other people's worries became apparent.