CHAPTER 24

"I want to see you," Max said intensely. "Get on the next train."

"Alright."

"I'll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level."

She nodded and moved away just as Henry Foster emerged with two chairs from his office.

We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting off torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.

"Terrible place, isn't it?" said Max, exchanging a frown with Doctor T. J. Eckleburg.

"Awful."

"It does her good to get away."

"Doesn't her husband object?"

"Foster? He thinks she's visiting her sister in New York. He's so clueless he doesn't know what's going on."

So Max Caldwell, his girl, and I went up to New York together—or not quite together, as

Mrs. Foster sat discreetly in another car. Max showed that much consideration for the sensitivities of those from East Egg who might be on the train.