“Grand Central Station!” called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension. With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie. “I thought you were going to run off and leave me,” she said. “I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey,” he answered. Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene. “How large is New York?” she asked. “Oh a million or more,” said Hurstwood. He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way. For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing. He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed. “We’ll look to-day, if you want to,” she said. Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew. He stood up and spoke to the driver. “Take me to the Belford,” he said, knowing it to be less frequented by those whom he knew. Then he sat down. “Where is the residence part?” asked Carrie, who did not take the tall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families. “Everywhere,” said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. “There are no lawns in New York. All these are houses.” “Well, then, I don’t like it,” said Carrie, who was coming to have a few opinions of her own. Chapter XXX. THE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS: THE PILGRIM ADREAM Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York. In Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires were not numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the inhabitants was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic, social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from view. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade. In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. The sea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear wholly from view—remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.