It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot.

Next day at five o'clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months' trip to the South Seas.

Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: "He's the man who fixed the World's Series back in 1919."

"I'll tell you God's truth." His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. "I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition."

"What part of the Middle West?" I inquired casually. "San Francisco." "I see."

"It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it."

Americans, while willing, even eager, to be serfs, have always been obstinate about being peasantry.

"My God, I believe the man's coming," said Tom. "Doesn't he know she doesn't want him?"

Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women's faces, but on Myrtle Wilson's face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.

"Was Daisy driving?" "Yes," he said after a moment, "but of course I'll say I was."