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topaboutfour.IthinkitwasTheJournal.Haveyougoteverythingyouneedintheshapeof—oftea?”
Itookhimintothepantry,wherehelookedalittlereproachfullyattheFinn.Togetherwescrutinizedthetwelvelemoncakesfromthedelicatessenshop.
“Willtheydo?”Iasked.
“Ofcourse,ofcourse!They’refine!”andheaddedhollowly,“…oldsport.”
Theraincooledabouthalf-pastthreetoadampmist,throughwhichoccasionalthindropsswamlikedew.GatsbylookedwithvacanteyesthroughacopyofClay’sEconomics,startingattheFinnishtreadthatshookthekitchenfloor,andpeeringtowardstheblearedwindowsfromtimetotimeasifaseriesofinvisiblebutalarminghappeningsweretakingplaceoutside.Finallyhegotupandinformedme,inanuncertainvoice,thathewasgoinghome.
“Why’sthat?”
“Nobody’scomingtotea.It’stoolate!”Helookedathiswatchasiftherewassomepressingdemandonhistimeelsewhere.“Ican’twaitallday.”
“Don’tbesillyit’sjusttwominutestofour.”
Hesatdownmiserably,asifIhadpushedhim,andsimultaneouslytherewasthesoundofamotorturningintomylane.Webothjumpedup,and,alittleharrowedmyself,Iwentoutintotheyard.
Underthedrippingbarelilac-treesalargeopencarwascomingupthedrive.Itstopped.Daisy’sface,tippedsidewaysbeneathathree-corneredlavenderhat,lookedoutatmewithabrightecstaticsmile.
“Isthisabsolutelywhereyoulive,mydearestone?”
Theexhilaratingrippleofhervoicewasawildtonicintherain.Ihadtofollowthesoundofitforamoment,upanddown,withmyearalone,beforeanywordscamethrough.Adampstreakofhairlaylikeadashofbluepaintacrosshercheek,andherhandwaswetwithglisteningdropsasItookittohelpherfromthecar.
“Areyouinlovewithme,”shesaidlowinmyear,“orwhydidIhavetocomealone?”
“That’sthesecretofCastleRackrent.Tellyourchauffeurtogofarawayandspendanhour.”
“Comebackinanhour,Ferdie.”Theninagravemurmur:“HisnameisFerdie.”
“Doesthegasolineaffecthisnose?”
“Idon’tthinkso,”shesaidinnocently.“Why?”
Wewentin.Tomyoverwhelmingsurprisetheliving-roomwasdeserted.
“Well,that’sfunny,”Iexclaimed.
“What’sfunny?”
Sheturnedherheadastherewasalightdignifiedknockingatthefrontdoor.Iwentoutandopenedit.Gatsby,paleasdeath,withhishandsplungedlikeweightsinhiscoatpockets,wasstandinginapuddleofwaterglaringtragicallyintomyeyes.
Withhishandsstillinhiscoatpocketshestalkedbymeintothehall,turnedsharplyasifhewereonawire,anddisappearedintotheliving-room.Itwasn’tabitfunny.AwareoftheloudbeatingofmyownheartIpulledthedoortoagainsttheincreasingrain.
Forhalfaminutetherewasn’tasound.Thenfromtheliving-roomIheardasortofchokingmurmurandpartofalaugh,followedbyDaisy’svoiceonaclearartificialnote:
“Icertainlyamawfullygladtoseeyouagain.”
Apauseitenduredhorribly.Ihadnothingtodointhehall,soIwentintotheroom.
Gatsby,hishandsstillinhispockets,wasrecliningagainstthemantelpieceinastrainedcounterfeitofperfectease,evenofboredom.Hisheadleanedbacksofarthatitrestedagainstthefaceofadefunctmantelpiececlock,andfromthispositionhisdistraughteyesstareddownatDaisy,whowassitting,frightenedbutgraceful,ontheedgeofastiffchair.
“We’vemetbefore,”mutteredGatsby.Hiseyesglancedmomentarilyatme,andhislipspartedwithanabortiveattemptatalaugh.Luckilytheclocktookthismomenttotiltdangerouslyatthepressureofhishead,whereuponheturnedandcaughtitwithtremblingfingers,andsetitbackinplace.Thenhesatdown,rigidly,hiselbowonthearmofthesofaandhischininhishand.
“I’msorryabouttheclock,”hesaid.
Myownfacehadnowassumedadeeptropicalburn.Icouldn’tmusterupasinglecommonplaceoutofthethousandinmyhead.
“It’sanoldclock,”Itoldthemidiotically.
Ithinkweallbelievedforamomentthatithadsmashedinpiecesonthefloor.
“Wehaven’tmetformanyyears,”saidDaisy,hervoiceasmatter-of-factasitcouldeverbe.
“FiveyearsnextNovember.”
TheautomaticqualityofGatsby’sanswersetusallbackatleastanotherminute.IhadthembothontheirfeetwiththedesperatesuggestionthattheyhelpmemaketeainthekitchenwhenthedemoniacFinnbroughtitinonatray.
Amidthewelcomeconfusionofcupsandcakesacertainphysicaldecencyestablisheditself.Gatsbygothimselfintoashadowand,whileDaisyandItalked,lookedconscientiously
