Amory's mind was working slowly, trying to assimilate what had happened and separate from the chaotic imagery that stacked his memory the bare shreds of truth.

If the morning had been cold and gray he could have grasped the reins of the past in an instant, but it was one of those days that New York gets sometimes in May, when the air on Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine.

How much or how little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; he apparently had none of the nervous tension that was gripping Amory and forcing his mind back and forth like a shrieking saw.
Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory.
"For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of this--this place!" Sloane looked at him in amazement.
"What do you mean ?" "This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!" "Do you mean to say," said Sloane stolidly, "that 'cause you had some sort of indigestion that made you act like a maniac last night, you're never coming on Broadway again ?" Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, and he seemed no longer Sloane of the debonair humor and the happy personality, but only one of the evil faces that whirled along the turbid stream.
"Man!" he shouted so loud that the people on the corner turned and followed them with their eyes, "it's filthy, and if you can't see it, you're filthy, too!" "I can't help it," said Sloane doggedly.

"What's the matter with you?
Old remorse getting you?
You'd be in a fine state if you'd gone through with our little party." "I'm going, Fred," said Amory slowly.

His knees were shaking under him, and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would keel over where he stood.