V

fromonetotheotherofuswithtense,unhappyeyes.However,ascalmnesswasn’tanendinitself,Imadeanexcuseatthefirstpossiblemoment,andgottomyfeet. “Whereareyougoing?”demandedGatsbyinimmediatealarm. “I’llbeback.” “I’vegottospeaktoyouaboutsomethingbeforeyougo.” Hefollowedmewildlyintothekitchen,closedthedoor,andwhispered:“Oh,God!”inamiserableway. “What’sthematter?” “Thisisaterriblemistake,”hesaid,shakinghisheadfromsidetoside,“aterrible,terriblemistake.” “You’rejustembarrassed,that’sall,”andluckilyIadded:“Daisy’sembarrassedtoo.” “She’sembarrassed?”herepeatedincredulously. “Justasmuchasyouare.” “Don’ttalksoloud.” “You’reactinglikealittleboy,”Ibrokeoutimpatiently.“Notonlythat,butyou’rerude.Daisy’ssittinginthereallalone.” Heraisedhishandtostopmywords,lookedatmewithunforgettablereproach,and,openingthedoorcautiously,wentbackintotheotherroom. Iwalkedoutthebackway—justasGatsbyhadwhenhehadmadehisnervouscircuitofthehousehalfanhourbefore—andranforahugeblackknottedtree,whosemassedleavesmadeafabricagainsttherain.Oncemoreitwaspouring,andmyirregularlawn,well-shavedbyGatsby’sgardener,aboundedinsmallmuddyswampsandprehistoricmarshes.TherewasnothingtolookatfromunderthetreeexceptGatsby’senormoushouse,soIstaredatit,likeKantathischurchsteeple,forhalfanhour.Abrewerhadbuiltitearlyinthe“period”craze,adecadebefore,andtherewasastorythathe’dagreedtopayfiveyears’taxesonalltheneighbouringcottagesiftheownerswouldhavetheirroofsthatchedwithstraw.PerhapstheirrefusaltooktheheartoutofhisplantoFoundaFamily—hewentintoanimmediatedecline.Hischildrensoldhishousewiththeblackwreathstillonthedoor.Americans,whilewilling,eveneager,tobeserfs,havealwaysbeenobstinateaboutbeingpeasantry. Afterhalfanhour,thesunshoneagain,andthegrocer’sautomobileroundedGatsby’sdrivewiththerawmaterialforhisservants’dinner—Ifeltsurehewouldn’teataspoonful.Amaidbeganopeningtheupperwindowsofhishouse,appearedmomentarilyineach,and,leaningfromthelargecentralbay,spatmeditativelyintothegarden.ItwastimeIwentback.Whiletheraincontinuedithadseemedlikethemurmuroftheirvoices,risingandswellingalittlenowandthenwithgustsofemotion.ButinthenewsilenceIfeltthatsilencehadfallenwithinthehousetoo. Iwentin—aftermakingeverypossiblenoiseinthekitchen,shortofpushingoverthestove—butIdon’tbelievetheyheardasound.Theyweresittingateitherendofthecouch,lookingateachotherasifsomequestionhadbeenasked,orwasintheair,andeveryvestigeofembarrassmentwasgone.Daisy’sfacewassmearedwithtears,andwhenIcameinshejumpedupandbeganwipingatitwithherhandkerchiefbeforeamirror.ButtherewasachangeinGatsbythatwassimplyconfounding.Heliterallyglowedwithoutawordoragestureofexultationanewwell-beingradiatedfromhimandfilledthelittleroom. “Oh,hello,oldsport,”hesaid,asifhehadn’tseenmeforyears.Ithoughtforamomenthewasgoingtoshakehands. “It’sstoppedraining.” “Hasit?”WhenherealizedwhatIwastalkingabout,thatthereweretwinkle-bellsofsunshineintheroom,hesmiledlikeaweatherman,likeanecstaticpatronofrecurrentlight,andrepeatedthenewstoDaisy.“Whatdoyouthinkofthat?It’sstoppedraining.” “I’mglad,Jay.”Herthroat,fullofaching,grievingbeauty,toldonlyofherunexpectedjoy. “IwantyouandDaisytocomeovertomyhouse,”hesaid,“I’dliketoshowheraround.” “You’resureyouwantmetocome?” “Absolutely,oldsport.” Daisywentupstairstowashherface—toolateIthoughtwithhumiliationofmytowels—whileGatsbyandIwaitedonthelawn. “Myhouselookswell,doesn’tit?”hedemanded.“Seehowthewholefrontofitcatchesthelight.” Iagreedthatitwassplendid. “Yes.”Hiseyeswentoverit,everyarcheddoorandsquaretower.“Ittookmejustthreeyearstoearnthemoneythatboughtit.” “Ithoughtyouinheritedyourmoney.” “Idid,oldsport,”hesaidautomatically,“butIlostmostofitinthebigpanic—thepanicofthewar.” Ithinkhehardlyknewwhathewassaying,forwhenIaskedhimwhatbusinesshewasinheanswered:“That’smyaffair,”beforeherealizedthatitwasn’tanappropriatereply. “Oh,I’vebeeninseveralthings,”hecorrectedhimself.“IwasinthedrugbusinessandthenIwasintheoilbusiness.ButI’mnotinei