ought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”  “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.”  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 jewellery 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 the matter with you.”  “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?”  He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm.  “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.”  There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true.  “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—”  I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made …  I shook hands 