«Terrible place, isn’t it», said Tom.
«Awful».
«It’s good for her to get away».
«Doesn’t her husband object?»
«Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb».
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York – or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat in another car.
She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin[19], which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. Upstairs, in the echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with gray upholstery, and in this we got away from the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.
«I want to get one of those dogs», she demanded. «I want to get one for the apartment. It’s so nice to have a dog there».
We backed up to a gray old man who, ironically, looked much like John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck there was a dozen puppies of an indeterminate breed.
«What kind are they?» asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.
«All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?»
«I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you have that kind?»
The man looked doubtfully into the basket and took out a puppy by the back of the neck.
«That’s not a police dog», said Tom.
«No, it’s not exactly a police dog», said the man with disappointment in his voice. «It’s more of an Airedale[20]. But that’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold».
«I think it’s cute», said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. «How much is it?»
«That dog?» He looked at it admiringly. «That dog will cost you ten dollars».
The Airedale – undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere – changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap.
«Is it a boy or a girl?» she asked delicately.
«That dog? That dog’s a boy».
«It’s a bitch», said Tom decisively. «Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it».
We went on and soon, at 158th Street, the cab stopped at an apartment-house. Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and went haughtily in.
«I’m going to invite the McKees», she announced as we rose in the elevator. «And, of course, I have to call up my sister, Catherine, who is very beautiful».
The apartment was on the top floor – a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was full to the doors with a set of furniture. Several copies of the small scandal magazines of Broadway lay on the table. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator-boy went for a box full of straw and some milk. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a hazy cover over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat down in the living-room and read a magazine.
Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company began to arrive at the apartment door.
The sister, Catherine, was a slender girl of about thirty, with red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more stylish angle. When she moved about there was a continual clicking as innumerable ceramic bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed extravagantly, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.
Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored silk, which gave out a rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive arrogance.
«I like your dress», remarked Mrs. McKee, the neighbor, «I think it’s adorable».
Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in contempt.
«It’s just a crazy old thing», she said. «I just put it on sometimes when I don’t care what I look like».
«But it looks wonderful on you», insisted Mrs. McKee.
Myrtle looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she kissed the dog with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the sofa.
«Do you live down on Long Island?» she inquired.
«I live at West Egg».
«Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?»
«I live next door to him».
«Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s.
That’s where all his money comes from».
«Really?»
She nodded.
This absorbing information about my neighbor was interrupted by Mrs. McKee who pointed suddenly at Catherine:
«Chester, I think you could do something with HER», she said, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.
«I’d like to do more work on Long Island», said Mr. McKee, «if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start».
«Ask Myrtle», said Tom, laughing, as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. «She’ll give you a letter of introduction[21], won’t you Myrtle?»
«Do what?» she asked, startled.
«You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him». His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented. «GEORGE B. WILSON AT THE GASOLINE PUMP, or something like that».
Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: «Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to».
«Can’t they?»
«Can’t STAND them». She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. «What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I were them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away».
«Doesn’t she like Wilson either?»
The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene.
«You see», cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. «It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce».
Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the lie.
«When they get married at last», continued Catherine, «they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over[22]».
«It’d be more sensible to go to Europe».
«Oh, do you