7

40 min

It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.

Curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest when, one Saturday night, the lights in his house never came on. His career as Trimalchio was over, as mysteriously as it had begun. Only gradually did I notice the cars turning expectantly into his driveway, staying just a minute, then driving sulkily away. Wondering if Gatsby was sick, I went over to find out. An unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted suspiciously at me from the doorway.

“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?”

“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way.

“Nope.” After a pause, he added “sir” slowly and reluctantly.

“I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.”

“I hadn’t seen him around, and I was pretty worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway stopped by.”

“Who?” he demanded rudely.

“Carraway.”

“Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.”

Abruptly he slammed the door.

Suddenly, he slammed the door.

My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all.

My Finnish servant told me Gatsby had fired every servant in his house a week earlier. Gatsby had replaced them with half a dozen others. The new servants never went into West Egg village, where the shopkeepers could bribe them. Instead, they ordered modest amounts of supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy said the kitchen looked like a pigsty. And most people in the village thought the new people weren’t servants at all.

Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.

The next day, Gatsby called me on the phone.

“Going away?” I inquired.

“Going away?” I asked.

“No, old sport.”

“No, my friend.”

“I hear you fired all your servants.”

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

“I wanted someone 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.

So the whole extravagant scene had collapsed like a house of cards 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.”

“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to help. 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.

He was calling at Daisy’s request. Would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later, Daisy herself called and seemed relieved to hear I was coming. Something was going on. Yet I couldn’t believe they would choose this lunch for a confrontation. Especially not the rather distressing confrontation Gatsby had described 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 pocketbook slapped to the floor.

The next day was scorching, nearly the last of the summer and certainly the hottest. As my train came out of the tunnel into sunlight, only the National Biscuit Company’s hot whistles broke the simmering noon silence. The train car’s straw seats seemed about to burst into flames. The woman next to me sweated lightly into her white blouse for a while. Then, as her newspaper grew damp under her fingers, she gave in despairingly to the heat with a desolate cry. Her handbag hit the floor with a slap.

“Oh, my!” she gasped.

I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same.

I bent down wearily, picked it up, and handed it back to her. I held it at arm’s length, gripping only the very tips of its corners to show I didn’t want it. But everyone nearby, including the woman, suspected me anyway.

“Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather!… Hot!… Hot!… Hot!… Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it… ?”

“Hot!” said the conductor to people he recognized. “What weather!… Hot!… Hot!… Hot!… Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it… ?”

My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart!

My commuter ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. To think anyone would care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed! Or whose head dampened the pajama pocket over his heart!

… Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.

… A faint breeze blew through the hall of the Buchanans’ house. It carried the sound of the ringing telephone to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.

“The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!”

“The master’s body?” the butler shouted into the phone. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t provide the body. It’s far too hot to touch at noon today!”

What he really said was: “Yes… Yes… I’ll see.”

What he actually said was: “Yes… Yes… I’ll see.”

He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats.

He put down the phone receiver. Glistening slightly, he came toward us to take our stiff straw hats.

“Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life.

“Madame is expecting you in the sitting room!” he called out, needlessly pointing the way. In this heat, every extra gesture was an insult to everyone's shared supply of energy.

The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.

Shaded by awnings, the room was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay on an enormous couch like silver idols. Their bodies held down their white dresses against the singing breeze from the fans.

“We can’t move,” they said together.

Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine.

Jordan’s tanned fingers were dusted with white powder. Her fingers rested in my hand for a moment.

“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired.

“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I asked.

Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone.

At the same time, I heard his rough, muffled, hoarse voice on the phone in the hall.

Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.

Gatsby stood in the middle of the crimson carpet and looked around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed her sweet, exciting laugh. A tiny puff of powder rose from her chest into the air.

“The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.”

“Rumor has it,” Jordan whispered, “that Tom’s girlfriend is on the phone.”

We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all… I’m under no obligations to you at all… and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!”

We were silent. The voice in the hall grew louder with annoyance: “Fine, then, I won’t sell you the car at all… I don’t owe you anything at all… And as for bothering me about the car at lunchtime, I won’t put up with that at all!”

“Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically.

“Holding down the phone receiver,” Daisy said cynically.

“No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.”

“No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a legitimate deal. I happen to know about the deal.”

Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room.

Tom threw open the door. His bulky body filled the doorway for a moment, and he hurried into the room.

“Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir… Nick…”

“Mr. Gatsby!” He held out his broad, flat hand, hiding his dislike well. “I’m glad to see you, sir… Nick…”

“Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy.

“Make us a cold drink,” Daisy called out.

As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.

As he left the room again, she got up and walked over to Gatsby. She pulled his face down and kissed him on the mouth.

“You know I love you,” she murmured.

“You know I love you,” she said softly.

“You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan.

“You’re forgetting there’s a lady here,” Jordan said.

Daisy looked around doubtfully.

Daisy looked around, unsure.

“You kiss Nick too.”

“What a low, vulgar girl!”

“What a trashy, crude girl!”

“I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.

“I don’t care!” Daisy cried, and began tap-dancing on the brick hearth. Then she remembered the heat and guiltily sat down on the couch. Just as she sat down, a nurse in freshly washed clothes entered the room, leading a little girl.

“Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.”

“Blessed, precious,” she cooed, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother, who loves you.”

The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.

The nurse let the child go. The child rushed across the room and shyly burrowed into her mother’s dress.

“The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.”

“My precious little darling! Did Mommy get powder on your yellowish hair? Stand up now and say hello.”

Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before.

Gatsby and I each bent down in turn and took the child’s small, reluctant hand. Afterward, Gatsby kept looking at the child in surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed the child existed before.

“I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.

“I got dressed before lunch,” the child said, turning eagerly to Daisy.

“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.”

“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” She lowered her face into the single crease in the small white neck. “You’re a dream. An absolute little dream.”

“Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.”

“Yes,” the child admitted calmly. “Aunt Jordan is wearing a white dress too.”

“How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?”

“How do you like Mom’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think Mom’s friends are pretty?”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”

“She doesn’t look like her father,” Daisy explained. “She looks like me. She has my hair and the same face shape as me.”

Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand.

Daisy sat back on the couch. The nurse stepped forward and held out her hand.

“Come, Pammy.”

“Come on, Pammy.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart!”

With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.

With a reluctant glance back, the well-behaved child held her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door. Just then, Tom came back, followed by four gin rickeys with ice clinking in the glasses.

Gatsby took up his drink.

Gatsby picked up his drink.

“They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension.

“They certainly look cool,” he said, looking tense.

We drank in long, greedy swallows.

We drank in long, greedy gulps.

“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year.

“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” Tom said cheerfully. “It seems the earth’s going to fall into the sun pretty soon. Or wait a minute. It’s just the opposite. The sun’s getting colder every year.

“Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.”

“Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby. “I’d like you to take a look at the place.”

I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.

I went with them out to the porch. The green Sound lay still in the heat. One small sail crept slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed the sail for a moment. He raised his hand and pointed across the bay.

“I’m right across from you.”

“So you are.”

Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles.

We looked up past the rose beds, the hot lawn, and the weeds left alongshore by summer’s hottest days. Slowly, the boat’s white wings moved against the cool blue edge of the sky. Ahead lay the ocean’s curved waves and the many blessed islands.

“There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.”

“That’s real sport,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.”

We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale.

We had lunch in the dining room, also darkened to keep out the heat. We washed down our nervous cheerfulness with cold ale.

“What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?”

“What are we going to do this afternoon?” Daisy cried. “And the day after that? And for the next thirty years?”

“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

“Don’t be so gloomy,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when the air turns crisp in the fall.”

“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”

“But it’s so hot,” Daisy insisted, almost in tears, “and everything’s so confusing. Let’s all go to town!”

Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms.

Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, giving shape to the heat’s mindless haze.

“I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.”

“I’ve heard of turning a stable into a garage,” Tom said to Gatsby. “But I’m the first man who ever turned a garage into a stable.”

“Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.”

“Who wants to go to town?” Daisy asked insistently. Gatsby’s gaze drifted toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.”

Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.

Their eyes met, and they stared at each other, alone in space. She made an effort to look down at the table.

“You always look so cool,” she repeated.

She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago.

She had told him she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw it. He was stunned. His mouth opened slightly, and he looked at Gatsby, then back at Daisy. He looked as if he had just recognized her as someone he had known a long time ago.

“You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—”

“You look like the man in the ad,” she went on innocently. “You know, the man in the ad...”

“All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.”

“All right,” Tom quickly cut in, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on, we’re all going to town.”

He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.

He stood up, his eyes still darting between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.

“Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.”

“Come on!” He started to lose his temper a little. “What’s the problem, anyway? If we’re going to town, let’s get going.”

His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive.

His hand trembled as he struggled to control himself. He raised his glass to his lips for the last of his ale. Daisy’s voice brought us to our feet and out onto the blazing-hot gravel driveway.

“Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?”

“Are we just going to leave?” she protested. “Just like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?”

“Everybody smoked all through lunch.”

“Everyone smoked throughout lunch.”

“Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.”

“Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to argue.”

He didn’t answer.

“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”

“Have it your way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”

They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.

They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there, shifting the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver crescent moon was already hovering in the western sky. Gatsby began to speak, then changed his mind, but Tom had already turned sharply to face him, waiting expectantly.

“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.

“Do you have your stables here?” Gatsby asked, making an effort.

“About a quarter of a mile down the road.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—”

“I don’t see the point of going to town,” Tom burst out angrily. “Women get these ideas in their heads...”

“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.

“Should we bring anything to drink?” Daisy called from an upstairs window.

“I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside.

“I’ll get some whisky,” Tom replied. He went inside.

Gatsby turned to me rigidly:

Gatsby turned stiffly toward me:

“I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.”

“I can’t say anything in his house, my friend.”

“She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated.

“Her voice gives too much away,” I said. “It’s full of...” I hesitated.

“Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly.

That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it… High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl…

That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money. That was the endless charm that rose and fell in it, the jingling, the song of cymbals… High in a white palace, the king’s daughter, the golden girl…

Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms.

Tom came out of the house, wrapping a quart bottle in a towel. Daisy and Jordan followed, wearing small, snug hats made of metallic fabric and carrying lightweight capes over their arms.

“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.”

“Should we all go in my car?” Gatsby suggested. He felt the seat’s hot, green leather. “I should have left the car in the shade.”

“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.

“Does it have a manual transmission?” demanded Tom.

“Yes.”

“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.”

“Well, you take my coupe and let me drive your car into town.”

The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.

Gatsby found the suggestion unpleasant.

“I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected.

“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.”

“Plenty of gas,” Tom said loudly and cheerfully. He looked at the gas gauge. “And if the gas runs out, I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore these days.”

A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face.

A pause followed this seemingly pointless remark. Daisy frowned at Tom, and an expression I couldn’t quite define passed over Gatsby’s face. The expression was both distinctly unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words.

“Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”

“Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pushing her toward Gatsby’s car with his hand. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”

He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.

He opened the door, but she moved out from under his arm.

“You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.”

“You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupe.”

She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind.

She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan, Tom, and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car. Tom cautiously shifted the unfamiliar gears, and we sped off into the stifling heat, leaving Gatsby and her out of sight behind us.

“Did you see that?” demanded Tom.

“Did you see that?” Tom demanded.

“See what?”

He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along.

He looked at me intently, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along.

“You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—”

“You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Maybe I am. But sometimes I have something almost like second sight that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science...”

He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of theoretical abyss.

He paused. The immediate situation caught up with him, pulling him back from the edge of an abyss of speculation.

“I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—”

“I’ve looked into this guy a little,” he continued. “I could have dug deeper if I’d known...”

“Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.

“Do you mean you’ve visited a medium?” Jordan asked jokingly.

“What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?”

“What?” He looked confused as he stared at us while we laughed. “A medium?”

“About Gatsby.”

“About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.”

“About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been looking into his past a little.”

“And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.

“And you found out he had gone to Oxford,” Jordan said helpfully.

“An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.”

“An Oxford man!” He couldn’t believe it. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.”

“Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.”

“Still, he went to Oxford.”

“Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.”

“Oxford, New Mexico,” Tom snorted with contempt, “or something like that.”

“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly.

“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” Jordan demanded irritably.

“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!”

“Daisy invited him. She knew him before we got married. God knows where!”

We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline.

We were all irritable now as the ale wore off. We knew we were irritable, so we drove in silence for a while. Then Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into view down the road, and I remembered Gatsby’s warning about gasoline.

“We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom.

“We have enough to get us to town,” Tom said.

“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.”

“But there’s a garage right here,” Jordan protested. “I don’t want the car to break down in this scorching heat.”

Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.

Tom impatiently slammed on both brakes, and we skidded to a sudden stop in the dust under Wilson’s sign. A moment later, the owner came out of his shop and stared at the car with hollow eyes.

“Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we stopped for—to admire the view?”

“Give us some gas!” Tom shouted harshly. “Why do you think we stopped? To admire the view?”

“I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”

“I’m sick,” Wilson said without moving. “I’ve been sick all day.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m all run down.”

“I’m completely worn out.”

“Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on the phone.”

“Well, should I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on the phone.”

With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green.

With an effort, Wilson moved out of the doorway, leaving its shade and support. Breathing hard, he unscrewed the tank's cap. In the sunlight, his face was green.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I really need money. And I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car.”

“How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.”

“How do you like this one?” Tom asked. “I bought it last week.”

“It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle.

“It’s a nice yellow one,” Wilson said as he struggled with the handle.

“Like to buy it?”

“Want to buy it?”

“Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money on the other.”

“Fat chance,” Wilson said with a faint smile. “No, but I could make some money on the other.”

“What do you want money for, all of a sudden?”

“What do you want money for all of a sudden?”

“I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go West.”

“Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled.

“Your wife does,” Tom blurted out, startled.

“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He rested for a moment against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”

“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He leaned against the pump for a moment, shielding his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”

The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a waving hand.

The coupe sped past us in a swirl of dust, with a brief glimpse of a waving hand.

“What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly.

“What do I owe you?” Tom demanded harshly.

“I just got wised up to something funny the last two days,” remarked Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering you about the car.”

“I found out something strange over the last two days,” Wilson said. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I’ve been bothering you about the car.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Dollar twenty.”

“A dollar and twenty cents.”

The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had a bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life apart from him in another world, and the shock had made him physically sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor girl with child.

The relentless, pounding heat was beginning to confuse me, and for a moment I felt alarmed. Then I realized that his suspicions had not yet turned to Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life apart from him, in another world. The shock had made him physically sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a similar discovery less than an hour earlier. And I realized that no difference in intelligence or race was as great as the difference between sick and healthy men. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty, as if he had just gotten some poor girl pregnant.

“I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll let you have that car,” Tom said. “I’ll send it over tomorrow afternoon.”

That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of something behind. Over the ash-heaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away.

That area always felt vaguely unsettling, even in the bright afternoon glare. Now I turned my head as though someone had warned me of something behind me. Above the ash heaps, the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept watch. But after a moment, I noticed other eyes watching us with unusual intensity from less than twenty feet away.

In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.

The curtains in one of the windows above the garage had been pulled aside a little. Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. She was so absorbed that she had no idea anyone was watching her. One emotion after another appeared on her face, like objects in a photograph slowly developing. Her expression was strangely familiar. I had often seen the same expression on women’s faces. But on Myrtle Wilson’s face, the expression seemed to have no purpose or explanation until I realized something. Her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom but on Jordan Baker. Myrtle thought Jordan was his wife.

There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé.

No confusion is greater than the confusion of a simple mind. As we drove away, Tom felt the burning sting of panic. Until an hour ago, his wife and his mistress had seemed securely his, beyond anyone else’s reach. Now both were rapidly slipping out of his control. Instinctively, he pressed the accelerator, both to catch up with Daisy and to leave Wilson behind. We sped toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour. Then, among the spidery steel beams of the elevated railway, we spotted the blue coupé moving along at an easy pace.

“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.”

“Those big movie theaters around Fiftieth Street are cool inside,” Jordan suggested. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. The city feels so sensual and overripe, as if all sorts of strange fruits were about to fall into your hands.”

The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside.

The word “sensuous” made Tom even more uneasy. But before he could think of an objection, the coupe stopped, and Daisy signaled us to pull up alongside.

“Where are we going?” she cried.

“Where are we going?” she called out.

“How about the movies?”

“How about going to the movies?”

“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”

“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll drive around and meet you later.” With an effort, she managed a faint bit of humor. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”

“We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.”

“We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck behind us blared its horn angrily. “Follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.”

Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever.

Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car. If traffic held them up, he slowed down until their car came into view. I think he was afraid they would turn down a side street and disappear from his life forever.

But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.

But they didn’t. And we all did something even harder to explain. We rented the sitting room of a suite at the Plaza Hotel.

The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea”—we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny…

I can’t remember the long, heated argument that finally herded us into that room. But I vividly remember how my body felt during the argument. My underwear kept creeping up around my legs like a damp snake. Now and then, beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The idea began with Daisy’s suggestion that we rent five bathrooms and take cold baths. Then the plan became more definite: “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us kept saying that it was a “crazy idea.” We all talked at once to a confused clerk and thought, or pretended to think, we were being very funny…

The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair.

The room was large and stuffy. Though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows brought in only hot air from the Park’s shrubs. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair.

“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed.

“It’s a great suite,” Jordan whispered respectfully, and everyone laughed.

“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.

“Open another window,” Daisy ordered without turning around.

“There aren’t any more.”

“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—”

“Well, we’d better call for an axe...”

“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”

“The best thing to do is forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make the heat ten times worse by complaining about it.”

He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table.

He unwrapped the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table.

“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.”

“Why not leave her alone, old sport?” Gatsby said. “You’re the one who wanted to come to town.”

There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me”—but this time no one laughed.

There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped off its nail and landed with a slap on the floor. Jordan then whispered, “Excuse me,” but this time no one laughed.

“I’ll pick it up,” I offered.

“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.

“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the broken string and muttered “Hmm!” with interest. He tossed the book onto a chair.

“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply.

“That’s a great phrase you use, isn’t it?” Tom said sharply.

“What is?”

“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”

“All this calling people ‘old sport.’ Where did you pick up that habit?”

“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.”

“Listen, Tom,” Daisy said, turning away from the mirror. “If you’re going to make personal comments, I won’t stay here another minute. Call and order some ice for the mint julep.”

As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below.

As Tom picked up the phone, the trapped heat exploded into sound. We heard the ominous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below.

“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally.

“Imagine marrying anyone in this heat!” Jordan cried miserably.

“Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”

“Still, I got married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Someone fainted. Who fainted, Tom?”

“Biloxi,” he answered shortly.

“Biloxi,” he replied curtly.

“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”

“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi. He made boxes. That’s a fact. And he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”

“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.”

“They carried him into my house,” Jordan added, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to leave. The day after he left, Daddy died.” After a moment, she added, as if she thought she might have sounded disrespectful, “There wasn’t any connection.”

“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked.

“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I said.

“That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.”

“That was his cousin. I knew his entire family history before he left. He gave me an aluminum putter I still 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.

The music had faded as the ceremony began. Now a long cheer drifted in through the window, followed by occasional cries of “Yeaaa!” Finally, jazz burst out as the dancing began.

“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.”

“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young, we’d get up and dance.”

“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”

“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where did you know him from, Tom?”

“Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.”

“Biloxi?” He struggled to concentrate. “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.”

“He wasn’t,” she insisted. “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.”

“Well, he said he knew you. He said he grew up in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him over 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.”

“He was probably making his way home by begging for rides. He told me he was your class president at Yale.”

Tom and I looked at each other blankly.

Tom and I looked at each other with blank expressions.

“Biloxi?”

“First place, we didn’t have any president—”

“First of all, we didn’t have a president...”

Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.

Gatsby’s foot tapped a brief, restless rhythm, and Tom suddenly looked at him.

“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”

“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you went to Oxford.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.”

“Oh, yes, I hear you went to Oxford.”

“Yes—I went there.”

“Yes, I went there.”

A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:

A pause. Then Tom spoke, sounding disbelieving and insulting:

“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”

“You must have gone there around the same 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.

Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice. But his “thank you” and the quiet closing of the door did not break the silence. This hugely important detail was finally going to be cleared up.

“I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.

“I told you I went there,” Gatsby said.

“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.”

“It was in 1919. I only stayed five months, so 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.

Tom glanced around to see if we shared his disbelief. 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.”

“They gave some officers this opportunity after the armistice,” he continued. “We could attend any university 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.

I wanted to stand up and slap him on the back. Once again, I felt my complete faith in him return.

Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.

Daisy stood up, 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!”

“Open the whiskey, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t feel so stupid… Look at the mint!”

“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.”

“Wait a minute,” Tom snapped. “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?”

“What kind of trouble are you trying to start in my house, anyway?”

They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content.

They were finally out in the open, and Gatsby was content.

“He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.”

“He isn’t making a scene.” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re making a scene. Please control yourself.”

“Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out… Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.”

“Self-control!” Tom repeated in disbelief. “I suppose the latest trend is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere romance your wife. Well, if that’s what people expect, you can count me out… Nowadays people start by mocking family life and the institution of marriage. Next they’ll throw everything away and have black and white people marrying each other.”

Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.

Flushed with his passionate nonsense, he imagined himself standing alone at civilization’s last line of defense.

“We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan.

“We’re all white here,” Jordan said quietly.

“I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.”

“I know I’m not very popular. I don’t throw big parties. I suppose these days you have to turn your house into a pigsty to have any friends.”

Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.

I was angry, as we all were. But whenever he opened his mouth, I was tempted to laugh. His transformation from a man with loose morals to a self-righteous prude was so complete.

“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention.

“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport,” Gatsby began. But Daisy guessed what he meant to say.

“Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?”

“Please don’t!” she cut in helplessly. “Please, let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?”

“That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”

“That’s a good idea.” I stood up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”

“I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.”

“Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.”

“Your wife doesn’t love you,” Gatsby said. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.”

“You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.

“You must be crazy!” Tom blurted out without thinking.

Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.

Gatsby jumped to his feet, his excitement plain to see.

“She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!”

“She never loved you, do you hear?” he shouted. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. Marrying you was a terrible mistake. But in her heart, she never loved anyone but me!”

At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions.

At this point Jordan and I tried to leave, but Tom and Gatsby each firmly insisted we stay, competing with each other. They acted as though neither had anything to hide, and sharing in their emotions would be a privilege for us.

“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.”

“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom said, trying and failing to sound fatherly. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.”

“I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.”

“I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “It’s been going on for five years, and you didn’t know.”

Tom turned to Daisy sharply.

Tom turned sharply toward Daisy.

“You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?”

“You’ve been seeing this guy for five years?”

“Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes”—but there was no laughter in his eyes—“to think that you didn’t know.”

“We weren’t seeing each other,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But we loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes.” But there was no laughter in his eyes. “Just thinking about how you didn’t know.”

“Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair.

“Oh, that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a minister and leaned back in his chair.

“You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.”

“You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then. And I’ll be damned if I know how you got within a mile of her. Unless you were delivering groceries to her back door. But all the rest of what you said is a goddamn lie. Daisy loved me when she married me, and she loves me now.”

“No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head.

“No,” Gatsby said, shaking his head.

“She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.”

“She does, though. The trouble is, sometimes she gets silly ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded wisely. “And besides, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go out partying and make a fool of myself. But I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.”

“You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.”

“You’re disgusting,” Daisy said. She turned to me, and her voice dropped an octave, filling the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised they didn’t tell you the story of that little spree.”

Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.

Gatsby walked over and stood next to her.

“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.”

“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just tell him the truth, that you never loved him, and it will all be erased forever.”

She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?”

She looked at him blankly. “Why, how could I possibly love him?”

“You never loved him.”

She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.

She hesitated. She looked at Jordan and me as if asking for help, as though she finally realized what she was doing. And as though she had never intended to do anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.

“I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.

“I never loved him,” she said, clearly reluctant.

“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly.

“Not at Kapiolani?” Tom suddenly demanded.

“No.”

From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air.

From the ballroom below, muffled, suffocating chords drifted up on waves of hot air.

“Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone… “Daisy?”

“Not on the day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” His voice was husky and tender… “Daisy?”

“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.

“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the bitterness was gone. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said. But her hand was trembling as she tried to light a cigarette. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match onto the carpet.

“Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.”

“Oh, you’re asking too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now. Isn’t my love enough? I can’t change the past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once, but I loved you too.”

Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.

“You loved me too?” he repeated.

“Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.”

“Even that’s a lie,” Tom said viciously. “She didn’t know you existed. There are things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know. Neither of us can ever forget those things.”

The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.

The words seemed to bite into Gatsby's body.

“I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—”

“I want to talk to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all worked up now...”

“Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.”

“Even when I’m alone, I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “That wouldn’t be true.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom.

“Of course it wouldn’t,” Tom agreed.

She turned to her husband.

“As if it mattered to you,” she said.

“As if you cared,” she said.

“Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.”

“You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.”

“You don’t understand,” Gatsby said, a little panicked. “You’re not going to take care of her anymore.”

“I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?”

“I’m not?” Tom widened his eyes and laughed. He could afford to keep his temper now. “Why’s that?”

“Daisy’s leaving you.”

“Nonsense.”

“I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.

“I am, though,” she said, clearly making an effort.

“She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.”

“She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly towered over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common crook who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.”

“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.”

“I won’t put up with this!” Daisy cried. “Oh, please, let’s get out of here.”

“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Tom burst out. “You’re part of the crowd that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem. I know that much. I’ve looked into your affairs a little, and I’ll investigate further tomorrow.”

“You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily.

“You can do what you like about that, old sport,” Gatsby said steadily.

“I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”

“I found out what your ‘drugstores’ really were.” He turned to us and spoke quickly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of drugstores on side streets here and in Chicago. They sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little tricks. I took him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”

“What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.”

“What about it?” Gatsby said politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to get involved in it.”

“And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.”

“And you left him stranded, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month in New Jersey. God! You should hear what Walter says about you.”

“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.”

“He came to us completely broke. He was very glad to make some money, old sport.”

“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”

“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” shouted Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you charged with breaking gambling laws too. But Wolfshiem scared him into keeping his mouth shut.”

That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.

That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back on Gatsby’s face.

“That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”

“That drugstore business was just small-time,” Tom continued slowly. “But you’re involved in something now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”

I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.

I glanced at Daisy, who was looking back and forth between Gatsby and her husband in terror. Then I glanced at Jordan, who had begun balancing an invisible but fascinating object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby and was startled by his expression. I say the following with complete contempt for the vicious gossip that had circulated in his garden. He looked as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment, the fixed expression on his face could be described in exactly that incredible way.

It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

It passed, and he began talking excitedly to Daisy, denying everything. He defended his name against accusations no one had made. But with every word, she withdrew further into herself, so he stopped trying. Only the dead dream kept fighting as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what could no longer be touched. Unhappy but not giving up hope, the dream struggled toward that lost voice across the room.

The voice begged again to go.

The voice begged again to leave.

“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.”

“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this anymore.”

Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.

Her frightened eyes showed that whatever intentions and courage she'd had were now completely gone.

“You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”

“You two head home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”

She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn.

She looked at Tom, alarmed now. But he insisted, both generous and scornful.

“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.”

“Go on. He won’t bother you. I think he realizes his arrogant little flirtation is over.”

They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.

They were gone without a word, abruptly cut off, made to seem incidental. Like ghosts, they were isolated, even from our pity.

After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel.

After a moment, Tom stood up. He began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel.

“Want any of this stuff? Jordan?… Nick?”

I didn’t answer.

“Nick?” He asked again.

“Nick?” he asked again.

“What?”

“Want any?”

“No… I just remembered that today’s my birthday.”

I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.

I was thirty. The road into a new decade stretched ahead of me, full of dark warnings and danger.

It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.

It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupe with him and headed for Long Island. Tom talked nonstop, celebrating and laughing. But to Jordan and me, his voice seemed as distant as the unfamiliar shouting on the sidewalk. It was as remote as the roar of the elevated train overhead. Human sympathy has its limits. We were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind us. Thirty promised a decade of loneliness, a shrinking list of single men to know, less enthusiasm, and thinning hair. But Jordan was beside me. Unlike Daisy, she was too wise ever to carry long-forgotten dreams from one stage of life to another. As we crossed the dark bridge, her pale face settled lazily against the shoulder of my coat. And the heavy blow of turning thirty faded with the reassuring pressure of her hand.

So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.

So we kept driving toward death as the twilight grew cooler.

The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead.

Michaelis, the young Greek who ran the coffee shop beside the ash heaps, was the main witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five. Then he strolled over to the garage and found George Wilson sick in his office. Wilson was really sick, as pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused. Wilson said he’d miss a lot of business if he went to bed. While his neighbor was trying to persuade him, a loud, violent noise broke out overhead.

“I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.”

“I have my wife locked up there,” Wilson explained calmly. “She’s staying there until the day after tomorrow. Then we’re moving away.”

Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own.

Michaelis was astonished. They had been neighbors for four years, and Wilson had never seemed even slightly capable of saying something like that. Usually, Wilson was one of those worn-out men. When he wasn’t working, he sat in a chair in the doorway, staring at people and cars passing along the road. Whenever anyone spoke to him, he always gave a pleasant, lifeless laugh. He belonged to his wife, not to himself.

So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage.

So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word. Instead, Wilson began giving his visitor odd, suspicious looks. He asked Michaelis what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as Michaelis was getting uneasy, some workmen passed the door on their way to his restaurant. Michaelis took the chance to leave, planning to return later. But he didn’t. He supposed he’d simply forgotten to come back, that was all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation. He could hear Mrs. Wilson’s loud, scolding voice downstairs in the garage.

“Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!”

“Beat me!” he heard her shout. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!”

A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over.

A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting. Before he could move from his doorway, the whole thing was over.

The “death car” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust.

The “death car”, as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop. It emerged from the growing darkness, swerved tragically for a moment, then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of the car’s color. He told the first policeman it was light green. The other car, heading toward New York, stopped a hundred yards farther on. Its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson knelt in the road, her life violently ended. Her thick, dark blood mixed with the dust.

Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.

Michaelis and this man reached her first. But when they tore open her blouse, still damp with sweat, they saw her left breast hanging loose like a flap. There was no need to listen for the heart beneath it. Her mouth was wide open and slightly torn at the corners. It was as though she had choked a little while giving up the tremendous vitality she had held for so long.

We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away.

We saw the three or four cars and the crowd while we were still some distance away.

“Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.”

“A car wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson will finally get a little business.”

He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes.

He slowed down but still had no intention of stopping. But as we got closer, the quiet, focused faces at the garage door made him brake without thinking.

“We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.”

“We’ll take a look,” he said uncertainly, “just a look.”

I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan.

I now noticed a hollow, wailing sound coming nonstop from the garage. As we got out of the coupe and walked toward the door, the sound became clear. Someone was repeating “Oh, my God!” over and over in a gasping moan.

“There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly.

“There’s some serious trouble here,” Tom said excitedly.

He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through.

He stood on tiptoe and peered over a circle of heads into the garage. The only light was yellow, coming from a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat. With a violent thrust of his powerful arms, he pushed his way through.

The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.

The circle closed again amid a steady murmur of protest. For a minute, I couldn’t see anything at all. Then new arrivals disrupted the line, and Jordan and I were suddenly pushed inside.

Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call:

Myrtle Wilson’s body lay on a worktable by the wall, wrapped in one blanket and then another. It was as though she felt a chill in the hot night. Tom stood with his back to us, bent over her body without moving. A motorcycle policeman stood beside him, sweating heavily as he wrote names in a little notebook and made frequent corrections. At first I couldn’t tell where the high, groaning cries came from. They echoed loudly through the bare garage. Then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office. He swayed back and forth, gripping the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking quietly to him and trying, now and then, to put a hand on his shoulder. But Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes moved slowly from the swinging light to the table holding the body by the wall. Then his eyes jerked back to the light, and he kept letting out the same high, horrible cry:

“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!”

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, God! Oh, my God!”

Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman.

After a moment, Tom jerked his head up and stared around the garage with glazed eyes. Then he mumbled something incoherent to the policeman.

“M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—”

“M-a-v...” the policeman was saying, “...o...”

“No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—”

“No, r,” the man corrected, “M-a-v-r-o...”

“Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely.

“Listen to me!” Tom muttered fiercely.

“r—” said the policeman, “o—”

“r...” said the policeman, “o...”

“g—”

“g...”

“g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?”

“g...” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand came down sharply on his shoulder. “What do you want, buddy?”

“What happened?—that’s what I want to know.”

“What happened? That’s what I want to know.”

“Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.”

“A car hit her. Killed her instantly.”

“Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring.

“Killed instantly,” Tom repeated, staring.

“She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”

“She ran out into the road. The son of a bitch didn’t even stop his car.”

“There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”

“There were two cars,” said Michaelis, “one coming, one going, see?”

“Going where?” asked the policeman keenly.

“Going where?” the police officer asked eagerly.

“One goin’ each way. Well, she”—his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side—“she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.”

“One going each way. Well, she...” His hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side. “She ran out there, and the one coming from N’York hit her, going thirty or forty miles an hour.”

“What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.

“What’s this place called?” the officer demanded.

“Hasn’t got any name.”

“Doesn’t have a name.”

A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.

A pale, well-dressed Black man stepped closer.

“It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.”

“It was a yellow car,” he said, “a big yellow car. New.”

“See the accident?” asked the policeman.

“Did you see the accident?” asked the police officer.

“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.”

“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster than forty. Going fifty, sixty.”

“Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.”

“Come here and tell me your name. Watch out now. I want to get his name.”

Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries:

Some words of the conversation must have reached Wilson as he swayed in the office doorway. Suddenly, his desperate cries took on a new theme:

“You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!”

“You don’t need to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!”

Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.

Watching Tom, I saw the muscle behind his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and stood in front of him. Then he grabbed Wilson firmly by the upper arms.

“You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing gruffness.

“You need to pull yourself together,” he said in a rough but soothing voice.

Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.

Wilson’s eyes landed on Tom. He suddenly rose onto his tiptoes, then would have collapsed to his knees if Tom hadn’t held him upright.

“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.”

“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I got here just a minute ago from New York. I was bringing you the coupe we’ve been talking about. The yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine. Do you hear me? I haven’t seen that car all afternoon.”

Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes.

Only the Black man and I were close enough to hear what he said. But the policeman picked up on something in his tone and looked over with hostile eyes.

“What’s all that?” he demanded.

“I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it… It was a yellow car.”

“I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firmly on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it… It was a yellow car.”

Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.

Some vague impulse made the policeman look suspiciously at Tom.

“And what colour’s your car?”

“And what color is your car?”

“It’s a blue car, a coupé.”

“It’s a blue car, a coupe.”

“We’ve come straight from New York,” I said.

“We came straight from New York,” I said.

Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away.

Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this. And the police officer turned away.

“Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—”

“Now, if you’ll give me that name again so I can get it right...”

Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back.

Tom picked up Wilson like a doll and carried him into the office. He set Wilson down in a chair and came back.

“If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.”

“If someone will come here and sit with him,” he snapped with authority. He watched as the two men standing closest glanced at each other and reluctantly went into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, avoiding looking at the table. As he passed close to me, he whispered: “Let’s get out.”

Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.

Feeling self-conscious, we pushed through the crowd that was still gathering, his arms forcefully clearing the way. We passed a doctor hurrying along with his bag in hand. Someone had sent for him half an hour earlier in desperate hope.

Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face.

Tom drove slowly until we were past the bend. Then he pressed hard on the gas, and the coupe raced through the night. A little later, I heard a low, hoarse sob and saw tears spilling down his face.

“The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”

“That goddamn coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”

The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.

The Buchanans’ house suddenly seemed to float toward us through the dark, rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor. Two windows glowed among the vines.

“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly.

“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car, he glanced at me and frowned slightly.

“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

“I should have dropped you off in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases.

He had changed, and he spoke seriously and decisively. As we crossed the moonlit gravel toward the porch, he settled the situation in a few brisk phrases.

“I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.”

“I’ll call a taxi to take you home. While you wait, you and Jordan should go into the kitchen and have them get you some dinner. If you want any, that is.” He opened the door. “Come in.”

“No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.”

“No, thanks. But I’d appreciate it if you’d call me a taxi. I’ll wait outside.”

Jordan put her hand on my arm.

“Won’t you come in, Nick?”

“Would you like to come in, Nick?”

“No, thanks.”

I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more.

I was feeling a little sick and wanted to be alone. But Jordan stayed a moment longer.

“It’s only half-past nine,” she said.

“It’s only nine thirty,” she said.

I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate.

I’d be damned if I’d go inside. I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen some of my feelings in my expression, because she abruptly turned away. She ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands. I stayed there until I heard someone pick up the phone inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the driveway away from the house, planning to wait by the gate.

I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon.

I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name. Gatsby stepped out from between two bushes onto the path. I must have felt pretty strange by then, because I could think only of his pink suit glowing in the moonlight.

“What are you doing?” I inquired.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Just standing here, old sport.”

“Just standing here, my friend.”

Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of “Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery.

Somehow, that seemed like a disgusting way to spend his time. For all I knew, he was about to rob the house. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces behind him in the dark bushes, faces of “Wolfshiem’s people.”

“Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute.

“Yes.”

He hesitated.

“Was she killed?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.”

“I thought so. I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better for the shock to come all at once. She handled the shock pretty well.”

He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.

He talked as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.

“I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.”

“I took a side road to West Egg,” he continued, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anyone saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.”

I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong.

By then, I disliked him so much that I didn’t feel the need to tell him he was wrong.

“Who was the woman?” he inquired.

“Who was the woman?” he asked.

“Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?”

“Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the hell did it happen?”

“Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth.

“Well, I tried to turn the wheel...” He stopped mid-sentence, and suddenly I guessed the truth.

“Was Daisy driving?”

“Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.”

“Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York, she was very nervous. She thought driving would calm her down. And this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. Everything happened in a minute. But it seemed to me that the woman wanted to speak to us, thinking we were people she knew. Well, first Daisy swerved away from the woman toward the other car. Then she lost her nerve and swerved back. The second my hand reached the wheel, I felt the impact. The impact must have killed the woman instantly.”

“It ripped her open—”

“It ripped her open...”

“Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.

“Don’t tell me, buddy.” He winced. “Anyway, Daisy hit the gas. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled the emergency brake. Then she fell into my lap, and I drove on.

“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.”

“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said after a while. “I’m just going to wait here. I’ll see if he tries to bother her about the unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself in her room. If he tries to get violent, she’s going to turn the light off and on again.”

“He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.”

“I don’t trust him, old sport.”

“I don’t trust him, my friend.”

“How long are you going to wait?”

“All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.”

“All night, if necessary. Anyway, until they all go to bed.”

A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor.

I saw things from a new angle. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection there. He might think anything. I looked at the house. Two or three downstairs windows were brightly lit, and a pink glow came from Daisy’s room on the ground floor.

“You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.”

“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll check for any sign of a disturbance.”

I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill.

I walked back along the edge of the lawn, crossed the gravel quietly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The living room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. I crossed the porch where we had eaten dinner that June night three months earlier. I came to a small rectangle of light that I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was down, but I found a gap at the windowsill.

Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.

Daisy and Tom sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Between them were a plate of cold fried chicken and two bottles of ale. Tom was talking intently to Daisy across the table. As he spoke earnestly, his hand had come to rest over hers. Now and then, she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.

They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.

They weren’t happy, and neither had touched the chicken or the ale. Yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable sense of easy intimacy between them, and anyone would have said they were plotting together.

As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive.

As I tiptoed off the porch, I heard my taxi slowly approaching the house along the dark road. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the driveway.

“Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously.

“Is everything quiet up there?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.”

“Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You should come home and get some sleep.”

He shook his head.

“I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.”

“I want to wait here until Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.”

He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing.

He put his hands in his coat pockets and eagerly turned back to studying the house. It was as though my presence spoiled the sacredness of his watch. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight, watching over nothing.