His name was Hubert Fowey.
So Joan tolerated him, encouraged him moderately through motives of self-interest, checked him with laughter when he tried to make love to her, secretly admired him even when his conceit was most fatiguing, and wondered what manner of women he had known to make him think that she would ever yield to his insistence....
She had been nearly six weeks in New York when she awoke one morning to rest in languorous regret of a late supper the preceding night, and to wonder whither she was tending, spurred to self-examination by that singularly clear introspective vision which not infrequently follows intemperance—at least, when one is young.
She was reminded sharply that, since returning to Town, she had made hardly a single attempt to find work, beyond having her professional cards printed.
And this was the edge of Summer....
Where would the Autumn find her?
Slipping quickly out of bed, she collected her store of money, and counted it for the first time in several weeks.
The sum total showed a shocking discrepancy between cold fact and the small fortune she had all along been permitting herself to believe she possessed. Even allowing for these heavy initial purchases on returning to New York, her capital had shrunk alarmingly.
She began anew, that day, the rounds of managers' offices.
Also, she laid down for her guidance a rigid schedule of economies. Only by strict observance thereof would she be able to scrape through the Summer without work or financial assistance from some quarter.