“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”

“Oh⁠—you’re Jor dan Baker.”

I knew now why her face was familiar⁠—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”

“If you’ll get up.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”