When the subject of this instinctive trust returnedto the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank hiscoffee with a jerk and got to his feet.
“I have enjoyed my lunch，” he said， “and I’m goingto run off from you two young men before I outstaymy welcome.”
“Don’t hurry， Meyer，” said Gatsby， withoutenthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sortof benediction.
“You’re very polite but I belong to anothergeneration，” he announced solemnly. “You sit hereand discuss your sports and your young ladiesand your—” He supplied an imaginary noun withanother wave of his hand— “As for me， I am fiftyyears old， and I won’t impose myself on you anylonger.”
As he shook hands and turned away his tragic
nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.
“He becomes very sentimental sometimes，”
explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimentaldays. He’s quite a character around New York—denizen of Broadway.”
“Who is he anyhow—an actor？”
“No.”
“A dentist？”
“Meyer Wolfshiem？ No， he’s a gambler.” Gatsbyhesitated， then added coolly： “He’s the man whofixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”
“Fixed the World’s Series？” I repeated.
The idea staggered me. I remembered of coursethat the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919 butif I had thought of it at all I would have thought ofit as a thing that merely HAPPENED， the end ofsome inevitable chain. It never occurred to me thatone man could start to play with the faith of fiftymillion people—with the single-mindedness of aburglar blowing a safe.
“How did he happen to do that？” I asked after aminute.
“He just saw the opportunity.”
“Why isn’t he in jail？”
“They can’t get him， old sport. He’s a smart man.”
I insisted on paying the check. As the waiterbrought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchananacross the crowded room.
“Come along with me for a minute，” I said. “I’vegot to say hello to someone.”
When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction.
“Where’ve you been？” he demanded eagerly.
“Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.”
“This is Mr. Gatsby， Mr. Buchanan.”
They shook hands briefly and a strained， unfamiliarlook of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.
“How’ve you been， anyhow？” demanded Tom ofme. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat？”
“I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.”
I turned toward Mr. Gatsby， but he was no longerthere.
One October day in nineteen-seventeen— （saidJordan Baker that afternoon， sitting up very straighton a straight chair in the tea-garden at the PlazaHotel） —I was walking along from one place toanother half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns.
I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoesfrom England with rubber nobs on the soles thatbit into the soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirtalso that blew a little in the wind and whenever thishappened the red， white and blue banners in frontof all the houses stretched out stiff and said TUTTUT-TUT-TUT in a disapproving way.
The largest of the banners and the largest of thelawns belonged to Daisy Fay’s house. She was justeighteen， two years older than me， and by far themost popular of all the young girls in Louisville. Shedressed in white， and had a little white roadster andall day long the telephone rang in her house andexcited young officers from Camp Taylor demandedthe privilege of monopolizing her that night，“anyways， for an hour！”
When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the curb， and shewas sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seenbefore. They were so engrossed in each other thatshe didn’t see me until I was five feet away.
“Hello Jordan，” she called unexpectedly. “Pleasecome here.”
I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me，because of all the older girls I admired her most.
She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross andmake bandages. I was. Well， then， would I tell themthat she couldn’t come that day？ The officer lookedat Daisy while she was speaking， in a way thatevery young girl wants to be looked at sometime，and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name wasJay Gatsby and I didn’t lay eyes on him again forover four years—even after I’d met him on LongIsland I didn’t realize it was the same man.
That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next yearI had a few beaux myself， and I began to play intournaments， so I didn’t see Daisy very often. Shewent with a slightly older crowd—when she wentwith anyone at all. Wild rumors were circulatingabout her—how her mother had found her packingher bag one winter night to go to New York andsay goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas.
She was effectually prevented， but she wasn’t onspeaking terms with her family for several weeks.
After that she didn’t play around with the soldiersany more but only with a few flat-footed， shortsightedyoung men in town who couldn’t get into the army at all.
By the next autumn she was gay again， gay as ever.
She had a debut after the Armistice， and in Februaryshe was presumably engaged to a man from New
Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down witha hundred people in four private cars and hireda whole floor of the Seelbach Hotel， and the daybefore the wedding he gave her a string of pearlsvalued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
I was bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner， and found herlying on her bed as lovely as the June night in herflowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She hada bottle of sauterne in one hand and a letter in theother.
“Gratulate me，” she muttered. “Never had a drinkbefore but oh， how I do enjoy it.”
“What’s the matter， Daisy？”
