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gatatablewithamanofaboutmyageandarowdylittlegirl,whogavewayupontheslightestprovocationtouncontrollablelaughter.Iwasenjoyingmyselfnow.Ihadtakentwofinger-bowlsofchampagne,andthescenehadchangedbeforemyeyesintosomethingsignificant,elemental,andprofound. Atalullintheentertainmentthemanlookedatmeandsmiled. “Yourfaceisfamiliar,”hesaidpolitely.“Weren’tyouintheFirstDivisionduringthewar?” “Whyyes.IwasintheTwenty-eighthInfantry.” “IwasintheSixteenthuntilJunenineteen-eighteen.IknewI’dseenyousomewherebefore.” Wetalkedforamomentaboutsomewet,greylittlevillagesinFrance.Evidentlyhelivedinthisvicinity,forhetoldmethathehadjustboughtahydroplane,andwasgoingtotryitoutinthemorning. “Wanttogowithme,oldsport?JustneartheshorealongtheSound.” “Whattime?” “Anytimethatsuitsyoubest.” ItwasonthetipofmytonguetoaskhisnamewhenJordanlookedaroundandsmiled. “Havingagaytimenow?”sheinquired. “Muchbetter.”Iturnedagaintomynewacquaintance.“Thisisanunusualpartyforme.Ihaven’tevenseenthehost.Iliveoverthere—”Iwavedmyhandattheinvisiblehedgeinthedistance,“andthismanGatsbysentoverhischauffeurwithaninvitation.” Foramomenthelookedatmeasifhefailedtounderstand. “I’mGatsby,”hesaidsuddenly. “What!”Iexclaimed.“Oh,Ibegyourpardon.” “Ithoughtyouknew,oldsport.I’mafraidI’mnotaverygoodhost.” Hesmiledunderstandingly—muchmorethanunderstandingly.Itwasoneofthoseraresmileswithaqualityofeternalreassuranceinit,thatyoumaycomeacrossfourorfivetimesinlife.Itfaced—orseemedtoface—thewholeeternalworldforaninstant,andthenconcentratedonyouwithanirresistibleprejudiceinyourfavour.Itunderstoodyoujustsofarasyouwantedtobeunderstood,believedinyouasyouwouldliketobelieveinyourself,andassuredyouthatithadpreciselytheimpressionofyouthat,atyourbest,youhopedtoconvey.Preciselyatthatpointitvanished—andIwaslookingatanelegantyoungroughneck,ayearortwooverthirty,whoseelaborateformalityofspeechjustmissedbeingabsurd.SometimebeforeheintroducedhimselfI’dgotastrongimpressionthathewaspickinghiswordswithcare. AlmostatthemomentwhenMr.GatsbyidentifiedhimselfabutlerhurriedtowardhimwiththeinformationthatChicagowascallinghimonthewire.Heexcusedhimselfwithasmallbowthatincludedeachofusinturn. “Ifyouwantanythingjustaskforit,oldsport,”heurgedme.“Excuseme.Iwillrejoinyoulater.” WhenhewasgoneIturnedimmediatelytoJordan—constrainedtoassureherofmysurprise.IhadexpectedthatMr.Gatsbywouldbeafloridandcorpulentpersoninhismiddleyears. “Whoishe?”Idemanded.“Doyouknow?” “He’sjustamannamedGatsby.” “Whereishefrom,Imean?Andwhatdoeshedo?” “Nowyou’restartedonthesubject,”sheansweredwithawansmile.“Well,hetoldmeoncehewasanOxfordman.” Adimbackgroundstartedtotakeshapebehindhim,butathernextremarkitfadedaway. “However,Idon’tbelieveit.” “Whynot?” “Idon’tknow,”sheinsisted,“Ijustdon’tthinkhewentthere.” Somethinginhertoneremindedmeoftheothergirl’s“Ithinkhekilledaman,”andhadtheeffectofstimulatingmycuriosity.IwouldhaveacceptedwithoutquestiontheinformationthatGatsbysprangfromtheswampsofLouisianaorfromthelowerEastSideofNewYork.Thatwascomprehensible.Butyoungmendidn’t—atleastinmyprovincialinexperienceIbelievedtheydidn’t—driftcoollyoutofnowhereandbuyapalaceonLongIslandSound. “Anyhow,hegiveslargeparties,”saidJordan,changingthesubjectwithanurbandistastefortheconcrete.“AndIlikelargeparties.They’resointimate.Atsmallpartiesthereisn’tanyprivacy.” Therewastheboomofabassdrum,andthevoiceoftheorchestraleaderrangoutsuddenlyabovetheecholaliaofthegarden. “Ladiesandgentlemen,”hecried.“AttherequestofMr.GatsbywearegoingtoplayforyouMr.VladmirTostoff’slatestwork,whichattractedsomuchattentionatCarnegieHalllastMay.Ifyoureadthepapersyouknowtherewasabigsensation.”Hesmiledwithjovialcondescension,andadded:“Somesensation!”Whereuponeverybodylaughed. “Thepieceisknown,”heconcludedlustily,“as‘VladmirTostoff’sJazzHistoryoftheWorld!’?” ThenatureofMr.Tostoff’scompositioneludedme,becausejustasitbeganmyeyesfellonGatsby,standingaloneonthemarblestepsandlookingfromonegrouptoanotherwithapprovingeyes.Histannedskinwasdrawnattractivelytightonhisfaceandhisshorthairlookedasthoughitweretrimmedeveryday.Icouldseenothingsinisterabouthim.Iwonderedifthefactthathewasnotdrinkinghelpedtosethimofffromhisguests,foritseemedtomethathegrewmorecorrectasthefraternalhilarityincreased.Whenthe“JazzHistoryoftheWorld”wasover,girlswereputtingtheirheadsonmen’sshouldersinapuppyish,convivialway,girlswereswooningbackwardplayfullyintomen’sarms,evenintogroups,knowingthatsomeonewouldarresttheirfalls—butnooneswoonedbackwardonGatsby,andnoFrenchbobtouchedGatsby’sshoulder,andnosingingquartetswereformedwithGatsby’sheadforonelink. “Ibegyourpardon.” Gatsby’sbutlerwassuddenlystandingbesideus. “MissBaker?”heinquired.“Ibegyourpardon,butMr.Gatsbywouldliketospeaktoyoualone.” “Withme?”sheexclaimedinsurprise. “Yes,madame.” Shegotupslowly,raisinghereyebrowsatmeinastonishment,andfollowedthebutlertowardthehouse.Inoticedthatsheworeherevening-dress,allherdresses,likesportsclothes—therewasajauntinessabouthermovementsasifshehadfirstlearnedtowalkupongolfcoursesonclean,crispmornings. Iwasaloneanditwasalmosttwo.Forsometimeconfusedandintriguingsoundshadissuedfromalong,many-windowedroomwhichoverhungtheterrace.EludingJordan’sundergraduate,whowasnowengagedinanobstetricalconversationwithtwochorusgirls,andwhoimploredmetojoinhim,Iwentinside. Thelargeroomwasfullofpeople.Oneofthegirlsinyellowwasplayingthepiano,andbesideherstoodatall,red-hairedyoungladyfromafamouschorus,engagedinsong.Sh