I began to like New York， the racy， adventurousfeel of it at night and the satisfaction that theconstant flicker of men and women and machinesgives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up FifthAvenue and pick out romantic women from the
crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I wasgoing to enter into their lives， and no one wouldever know or disapprove. Sometimes， in my mind，I followed them to their apartments on the cornersof hidden streets， and they turned and smiled backat me before they faded through a door into warmdarkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilightI felt a haunting loneliness sometimes， and felt in others—poor young clerks who loitered in frontof windows waiting until it was time for a solitaryrestaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk， wasting the most poignant moments of night andlife.
Again at eight o’clock， when the dark lanes of theForties were five deep with throbbing taxi cabs，bound for the theatre district， I felt a sinking in myheart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as theywaited， and voices sang， and there was laughterfrom unheard jokes， and lighted cigarettes outlinedunintelligible gestures inside. Imagining that I，too， was hurrying toward gayety and sharing theirintimate excitement， I wished them well.
For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker， and thenin mid-summer I found her again. At first I wasflattered to go places with her because she wasa golf champion and every one knew her name.
Then it was something more. I wasn’t actuallyin love， but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. Thebored haughty face that she turned to the worldconcealed something—most affectations concealsomething eventually， even though they don’t in thebeginning—and one day I found what it was. Whenwe were on a house-party together up in Warwick，she left a borrowed car out in the rain with thetop down， and then lied about it—and suddenly Iremembered the story about her that had eludedme that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golftournament there was a row that nearly reachedthe newspapers—a suggestion that she had movedher ball from a bad lie in the semi-final round. Thething approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statementandthe only other witness admitted that he might havebeen mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.
Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever shrewdmen and now I saw that this was because she feltsafer on a plane where any divergence from a codewould be thought impossible. She was incurablydishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at adisadvantage， and given this unwillingness I supposeshe had begun dealing in subterfuges when she wasvery young in order to keep that cool， insolent smileturned to the world and yet satisfy the demands ofher hard jaunty body.
It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I wascasually sorry， and then I forgot. It was on that samehouse party that we had a curious conversationabout driving a car. It started because she passedso close to some workmen that our fender flicked button on one man’s coat.
“You’re a rotten driver，” I protested. “Either youought to be more careful or you oughtn’t to drive atall.”
“I am careful.”
“No， you’re not.”
“Well， other people are，” she said lightly.
“What’s that got to do with it？”
“They’ll keep out of my way，” she insisted. “Ittakes two to make an accident.”
“Suppose you met somebody just as careless asyourself.”
“I hope I never will，” she answered. “I hatecareless people. That’s why I like you.”
Her grey， sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead，but she had deliberately shifted our relations， andfor a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slowthinkingand full of interior rules that act as brakeson my desires， and I knew that first I had to getmyself definitely out of that tangle back home.
I’d been writing letters once a week and signingthem： “Love， Nick，” and all I could think of washow， when that certain girl played tennis， a faintmustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip.
Nevertheless there was a vague understanding thathad to be tactfully broken off before I was free.
Every one suspects himself of at least one of thecardinal virtues， and this is mine： I am one of thefew honest people that I have ever known.
