‘I’m thirty,’ I said. ‘I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.’
She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.
One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewelry store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back holding out his hand.
‘What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?’
‘Yes. You know what I think of you.’
‘You’re crazy, Nick,’ he said quickly. ‘Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s
