m Memphis,” I remarked.  “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.”  The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.  “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.”  “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”  “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.”  “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.”  “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.”  Jordan smiled.  “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.”  Tom and I looked at each other blankly.  “Biloxi?”  “First place, we didn’t have any president—”  Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.  “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”  “Not exactly.”  “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.”  “Yes—I went there.”  A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:  “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”  Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.  “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.  “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.”  “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.”  Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby.  “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.”  I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before.  Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.  “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!”  “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.”  “Go on,” Gatsby said politely.  “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?”  The