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quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was


Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other



way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it




seemed harsh and dry. “I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.” Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but




the act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid. “You weren’t so nice to me last night.” “How could it have mattered then?” Silence for a moment. Then:




“However â€Â" I want to see you.” “I want to see you, too.” “Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?” “No â€Â" I don’t think this afternoon.”




“Very well.” “It’s impossible this afternoon. Various â€Â"â€Â"” We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I



don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never




talked to her again in this world. I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being


kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my time-table, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think.



It was just noon. when i phied the ashheaps on the train that morning i had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I suppose there’d be a curious


crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less



real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage





after we left there the night before. They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was



stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the




intolerable part of the affair. Some one, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body. Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up



against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and every one who came into .








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