I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’sbedroom， a grey， florid man with a hard emptyface—the pioneer debauchee who during one phase of American life brought back to the easternseaboard the savage violence of the frontier brotheland saloon. It was indirectly due to Cody thatGatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the courseof gay parties women used to rub champagne intohis hair； for himself he formed the habit of lettingliquor alone.
And it was from Cody that he inherited money—legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars. He didn’t getit. He never understood the legal device that wasused against him but what remained of the millionswent intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with hissingularly appropriate education； the vague contourof Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality ofa man.
He told me all this very much later， but I’ve putit down here with the idea of exploding those firstwild rumors about his antecedents， which weren’teven faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at time of confusion， when I had reached the pointof believing everything and nothing about him. SoI take advantage of this short halt， while Gatsby，so to speak， caught his breath， to clear this set ofmisconceptions away.
It was a halt， too， in my association with hisaffairs. For several weeks I didn’t see him or hearhis voice on the phone—mostly I was in New York，trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiatemyself with her senile aunt—but finally I went overto his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t beenthere two minutes when somebody brought Tom
Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled， naturally，but the really surprising thing was that it hadn’thappened before.
They were a party of three on horse back—Tomand a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in abrown riding habit who had been there previously.
“I’m delighted to see you，” said Gatsby standingon his porch. “I’m delighted that you dropped in.”
As though they cared！
“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” Hewalked around the room quickly， ringing bells. “I’llhave something to drink for you in just a minute.”
He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something， realizing in avague way that was all they came for. Mr. Sloanewanted nothing. A lemonade？ No， thanks. A littlechampagne？ Nothing at all， thanks…. I’m sorry—“Did you have a nice ride？”
“Very good roads around here.”
“I suppose the automobiles—”
‘‘Yeah.”
Moved by an irresistible impulse， Gatsby turnedto Tom who had accepted the introduction as astranger.
“I believe we’ve met somewhere before， Mr.
Buchanan.”
“Oh， yes，” said Tom， gruffly polite but obviouslynot remembering. “So we did. I remember verywell.”
“About two weeks ago.”
“That’s right. You were with Nick here.”
“I know your wife，” continued Gatsby， almostaggressively.
“That so？”
Tom turned to me.
“You live near here， Nick？”
“Next door.”
“That so？”
Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation butlounged back haughtily in his chair； the woman saidnothing either—until unexpectedly， after two highballs，she became cordial.
“We’ll all come over to your next party， Mr.
Gatsby，” she suggested. “What do you say？”
“Certainly. I’d be delighted to have you.”
“Be ver’ nice，” said Mr. Sloane， without gratitude.
“Well—think ought to be starting home.”
“Please don’t hurry，” Gatsby urged them. Hehad control of himself now and he wanted to seemore of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stayfor supper？ I wouldn’t be surprised if some otherpeople dropped in from New York.”
“You come to supper with ME，” said the ladyenthusiastically. “Both of you.”
This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.
“Come along，” he said—but to her only.
“I mean it，” she insisted. “I’d love to have you.
Lots of room.”
Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted togo and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determinedhe shouldn’t.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to，” I said.
“Well， you come，” she urged， concentrating onGatsby.
Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.
“We won’t be late if we start now，” she insistedaloud.
“I haven’t got a horse，” said Gatsby. “I used toride in the army but I’ve never bought a horse. I’llhave to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just aminute.”
The rest of us walked out on the porch， whereSloane and the lady began an impassioned
conversation aside.
“My God， I believe the man’s coming，” said Tom.
“Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him？”
“She says she does want him.”
“She has a big dinner party and he won’t know asoul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in thedevil he met Daisy. By God， I may be old-fashionedin my ideas， but women run around too much thesedays to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.”
Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down
the steps and mounted their horses.
“Come on，” said Mr. Sloane to Tom， “we’re late.
We’ve got to go.” And then to me： “Tell him wecouldn’t wait， will you？”
Tom and I shook hands， the rest of us exchangeda cool nod and they trotted quickly down the drive，disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsbywith hat and light overcoat in hand came out thefront door.
Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s runningaround alone， for on the following Saturday nighthe came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps hispresence gave the evening its peculiar quality ofoppressiveness—it stands out in my memory fromGatsby’s other parties that summer. There were thesame people， or at least the same sort of people，the same profusion of champagne， the same manycolored，many-keyed commotion， but I felt an unpleasantness in the air， a pervading harshnessthat hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I hadmerely grown used to it， grown to accept West Eggas a world complete in itself， with its own standardsand its own great figures， second to nothing becauseit had no consciousness of being so， and now was looking at it again， through Daisy’s eyes. It invariably saddening to look through new eyes atthings upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.
They arrived at twilight and as we strolled outamong the sparkling hundreds Daisy’s voice wasplaying murmurous tricks in her throat.
