'Oh, and do you remember' - she added - 'a conversation we had
once about driving a car?'
'Why - not exactly.'
'You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad
driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn't I? I mean it was
careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought 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.
Francis Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, 1926
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