The Great Gatsby

“No, old sport.”

“I hear you fired all your servants.”

“I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite
often—in the afternoons.”

So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the
disapproval in her eyes.

“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all
brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.”

“I see.”

He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her
house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy
herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was
coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would
choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing
scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.

The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of
the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only
the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering
hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of
combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into
her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her
fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her