When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:

“I’m the Sheik of Araby.

Your love belongs to me.

At night when you’re asleep

Into your tent I’ll creep⁠—”