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e Tom Buchanans。 Daisy was my second cousin once removed； and I’d known Tom in college。 And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago。
Her husband； among various physical acplishments； had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way； one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twentyone that everything afterward savors of anticlimax。 His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and e East in a fashion that rather took your breath away： for instance； he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest。 it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that。
Why they came East I don’t know。 They had spent a year in France for no particular reason； and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together。 This was a permanent move； said Daisy over the telephone； but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart； but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking； a little wistfully； for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game。
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all。 Their house was even more elaborate than I expected； a cheerful redandwhite Georgian Colonial mansion； overlooking the bay。 The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile； jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run。 The front was broken by a line of French windows； glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon； and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch。
He had changed since his New Haven years。 Now he was a sturdy strawhaired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner。 Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward。 Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing； and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat。 It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body。
His speaking voice； a gruff husky tenor； added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed。 There was a touch of paternal contempt in it； even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts。
“Now； don’t think my opinion on these matters is final；” he seemed to say； “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are。” We were in the same senior society； and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh； defiant wistfulness of his own。
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch。
“I’ve got a nice place here；” he said； his eyes flashing about restlessly。
Turning me around by one arm； he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista； including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden； a half acre of deep； pungent roses； and a snubnosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore。
“It belonged to Demaine； the oil man。” He turned me around again； politely and abruptly。 “We’ll go inside。”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosycolored space； fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end。 The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house。 A breeze blew through the room； blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags； twisting them up toward the frosted weddingcake of the ceiling； and then rippled over the winecolored rug； making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea。
The only pletely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon。 They were both in white； and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house。 I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall。 Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room； and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor。
The younger of the two was a stranger to me。 She was extended full length at her end of the divan； pletely motionless； and with her chin raised a little； as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall。 If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed； I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by ing in。
The other girl； Daisy； made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed； an absurd； charming little laugh； and I laughed too and came forward into the room。
“I’m pparalyzed with happiness。” She laughed again； as if she said something very witty； and held my hand for a moment； looking up into my face； promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see。 That was a way she had。 She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker。 （I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her； an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming。）
At any rate； Miss Baker’s lips fluttered； she nodded at me almost imperceptibly； and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright。 Again a sort of apology arose to my lips。 Almost any exhibition of plete selfsufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me。
I looked back at my cousin； who began to ask me questions in her low； thrilling voice。 It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down； as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again。 Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it； bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth； but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget： a singing pulsion； a whispered “Listen；” a promise that she had done gay； exciting things just a while since and that there were gay； exciting things hovering in the next hour。
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East； and how a dozen people had sent their love through me。
“Do they miss me？” she cried ecstatically。
“The whole town is desolate。 All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath； and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore。”
“How gorgeous！ Let’s go back； Tom。 Tomorrow！” Then she added irrelevantly： “You ought to see the baby。”
“I’d like to。”
“She’s asleep。 She’s three years old。 Haven’t you ever seen her？”
“Never。”
“Well； you ought to see her。 She’s——”
Tom Buchanan； who had been hovering restlessly about the room； stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder。
“What you doing； Nick？”
“I’m a bond man。”
“Who with？”
I told him。
“Never heard of them；” he remarked decisively。
This annoyed me。
“You will；” I answered shortly。 “You will if you stay in the East。”
“Oh； I’ll stay in the East； don’t you worry；” he said； glancing at Daisy and then back at me； as if he were alert for something more。 “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else。”
At this point Miss Baker said： “Absolutely！” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room。 Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me； for she yawned and with a series of rapid； deft movements stood up into the room。
“I’m stiff；” she plained； “I’ve been lying on that sofa for