The motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runsbeside it for a quarter of a mile， so as to shrink awayfrom a certain desolate area of land. This is a valleyof ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow likewheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardenswhere ashes take the forms of houses and chimneysand rising smoke and finally， with a transcendenteffort， of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionallya line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track，gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest， andimmediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloudwhich screens their obscure operations from yoursight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleakdust which drift endlessly over it， you perceive，after a moment， the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg.
The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue andgigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They lookout of no face but， instead， from a pair of enormousyellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistentnose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist setthem there to fatten his practice in the borough ofQueens， and then sank down himself into eternalblindness or forgot them and moved away. But hiseyes， dimmed a little by many paintless days undersun and rain， brood on over the solemn dumpingground.
The valley of ashes is bounded on one side bya small foul river， and when the drawbridge is upto let barges through， the passengers on waitingtrains can stare at the dismal scene for as long ashalf an hour. There is always a halt there of at leasta minute and it was because of this that I first metTom Buchanan’s mistress.
The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resentedthe fact that he turned up in popular restaurantswith her and， leaving her at a table， saunteredabout， chatting with whomsoever he knew. ThoughI was curious to see her I had no desire to meether—but I did. I went up to New York with Tomon the train one afternoon and when we stopped bythe ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking holdof my elbow literally forced me from the car.
“We’re getting off！” he insisted. “I want you tomeet my girl.”
I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon andhis determination to have my company bordered onviolence.The supercilious assumption was that onSunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.
I followed him over a low white-washed railroadfence and we walked back a hundred yards alongthe road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare.
The only building in sight was a small block ofyellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land，a sort of compact Main Street ministering to and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of thethree shops it contained was for rent and anotherwas an all-night restaurant approached by a trail ofashes； the third was agarage—Repairs. GEORGE B.
WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed
Tom inside.
The interior was unprosperous and bare； the onlycar visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Fordwhich crouched in a dim corner. It had occurredto me that this shadow of a garage must be a blindand that sumptuous and romantic apartments wereconcealed overhead when the proprietor himselfappeared in the door of an office， wiping his handson a piece of waste. He was a blonde， spiritless man，anaemic， and faintly handsome. When he saw us adamp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.
“Hello， Wilson， old man，” said Tom， slapping himjovially on the shoulder. “How’s business？”
“I can’t complain，” answered Wilson unconvincingly.
“When are you going to sell me that car？”
“Next week； I’ve got my man working on it now.”
“Works pretty slow， don’t he？”
“No， he doesn’t，” said Tom coldly. “And if you feelthat way about it， maybe I’d better sell it somewhereelse after all.”
“I don’t mean that，” explained Wilson quickly. “Ijust meant—”
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatientlyaround the garage. Then I heard footsteps on astairs and in a moment the thickish figure of awoman blocked out the light from the office door.
She was in the middle thirties， and faintly stout，but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as somewomen can. Her face， above a spotted dress of darkblue crepe-de-chine， contained no facet or gleamof beauty but there was an immediately perceptiblevitality about her as if the nerves of her body werecontinually smouldering.She smiled slowly andwalking through her husband as if he were a ghostshook hands with Tom， looking him flush in theeye. Then she wet her lips and without turningaround spoke to her husband in a soft， coarse voice：
“Get some chairs， why don’t you， so somebodycan sit down.”
“Oh， sure，” agreed Wilson hurriedly and wenttoward the little office， mingling immediately withthe cement color of the walls. A white ashen dustveiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiledeverything in the vicinity—except his wife， whomoved close to Tom.
“I want to see you，” said Tom intently. “Get on thenext train.”
“All right.”
“I’ll meet you by the news-stand on the lowerlevel.” She nodded and moved away from him justas George Wilson emerged with two chairs from hisoffice door.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight.
It was a few days before the Fourth of July， and grey， scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes ina row along the railroad track.
“Terrible place， isn’t it，” said Tom， exchanging frown with Doctor Eckleburg.
“Awful.”
“It does her good to get away.”
“Doesn’t her husband object？”
“Wilson？ He thinks she goes to see her sister inNew York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.”
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together， forMrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tomdeferred that much to the sensibilities of those EastEggers who might be on the train.
