CHAPTER 22

It was well-known that he had one. His acquaintances resented that he frequented popular restaurants with her, leaving her at a table while he mingled with anyone he knew.

Although I was curious to meet her, I had no particular wish to actually do so—but I did.

I took the train to New York with Max one afternoon, and when we halted by the

ash heaps, he jumped to his feet and, grabbing my elbow, practically dragged me from the car.

"We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl."

He had clearly had a few drinks at lunch, and his insistence on my company bordered on aggression. It seemed he assumed that on a Sunday afternoon, I had nothing better to do.

I followed him over a low, whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred

yards along the road under the unrelenting gaze of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The only building visible was a small block of yellow brick on the edge of the wasteland, a sort of

compact Main Street serving it and adjacent to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops in the block was for rent, another was an all-night restaurant approached by a

trail of ashes, and the third was a garage—Repairs. HENRY FOSTER. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Max inside.

The interior was unkempt and sparse; the only car visible was a dust-covered wreck of a Ford huddled in a dim corner. I had suspected that this shadow of a garage might be a

front, concealing lavish and romantic apartments overhead, until the proprietor himself appeared in the doorway of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of rag. He was a pale,

spiritless man, anemic, and faintly attractive. When he saw us, a glimmer of hope appeared in his light blue eyes.