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“All right.”

“I'll meet you by the news-stand.”

She nodded and moved away from him. George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door.

We waited for her down the road and out of sight.

“Terrible place, isn't it?” said Tom.

“Awful.”

“It does her good to get away.”

“Doesn't her husband object?”

“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York.“

So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York – or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. At the news-stand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a magazine, and in the station drug store some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Then said, pointing at the grey old man with a basket.

“I want one of those dogs,” she said. “I want to get one for the apartment. They're so nice.”

In a basket the grey old man had pretty puppies.

“What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson.

“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?”

“I'd like to get one of those police dogs[2]; do you have that kind?”

The man peered into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, by the back of the neck.

“That's no police dog,” said Tom.

“No, it's not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment in his voice. “But look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never get cold!”

“I think it's cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is it?”

“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten dollars.”

The puppy settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately.