hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.
“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly.
“You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—”
He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.”
As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.
“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.”
“Who is he, anyhow, an actor?”
“No.”
“A dentist?”
“Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.”