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theronenow.”Helookedatmewithmoreattention.“Doyoumeanyou’vebeenthinkingoverwhatIproposedtheothernight?” BeforeIcouldanswer,Daisycameoutofthehouseandtworowsofbrassbuttonsonherdressgleamedinthesunlight. “Thathugeplacethere?”shecriedpointing. “Doyoulikeit?” “Iloveit,butIdon’tseehowyoulivethereallalone.” “Ikeepitalwaysfullofinterestingpeople,nightandday.Peoplewhodointerestingthings.Celebratedpeople.” InsteadoftakingtheshortcutalongtheSoundwewentdowntotheroadandenteredbythebigpostern.WithenchantingmurmursDaisyadmiredthisaspectorthatofthefeudalsilhouetteagainstthesky,admiredthegardens,thesparklingodourofjonquilsandthefrothyodourofhawthornandplumblossomsandthepalegoldodourofkiss-me-at-the-gate.Itwasstrangetoreachthemarblestepsandfindnostirofbrightdressesinandoutthedoor,andhearnosoundbutbirdvoicesinthetrees. Andinside,aswewanderedthroughMarieAntoinettemusic-roomsandRestorationSalons,Ifeltthattherewereguestsconcealedbehindeverycouchandtable,underorderstobebreathlesslysilentuntilwehadpassedthrough.AsGatsbyclosedthedoorof“theMertonCollegeLibrary”IcouldhaveswornIheardtheowl-eyedmanbreakintoghostlylaughter. Wewentupstairs,throughperiodbedroomsswathedinroseandlavendersilkandvividwithnewflowers,throughdressing-roomsandpoolrooms,andbathroomswithsunkenbaths—intrudingintoonechamberwhereadishevelledmaninpyjamaswasdoingliverexercisesonthefloor.ItwasMr.Klipspringer,the“boarder.”Ihadseenhimwanderinghungrilyaboutthebeachthatmorning.FinallywecametoGatsby’sownapartment,abedroomandabath,andanAdam’sstudy,wherewesatdownanddrankaglassofsomeChartreusehetookfromacupboardinthewall. Hehadn’tonceceasedlookingatDaisy,andIthinkherevaluedeverythinginhishouseaccordingtothemeasureofresponseitdrewfromherwell-lovedeyes.Sometimestoo,hestaredaroundathispossessionsinadazedway,asthoughinheractualandastoundingpresencenoneofitwasanylongerreal.Oncehenearlytoppleddownaflightofstairs. Hisbedroomwasthesimplestroomofall—exceptwherethedresserwasgarnishedwithatoiletsetofpuredullgold.Daisytookthebrushwithdelight,andsmoothedherhair,whereuponGatsbysatdownandshadedhiseyesandbegantolaugh. “It’sthefunniestthing,oldsport,”hesaidhilariously.“Ican’t—WhenItryto—” Hehadpassedvisiblythroughtwostatesandwasenteringuponathird.Afterhisembarrassmentandhisunreasoningjoyhewasconsumedwithwonderatherpresence.Hehadbeenfulloftheideasolong,dreameditrightthroughtotheend,waitedwithhisteethset,sotospeak,ataninconceivablepitchofintensity.Now,inthereaction,hewasrunningdownlikeanover-woundclock. Recoveringhimselfinaminuteheopenedforustwohulkingpatentcabinetswhichheldhismassedsuitsanddressing-gownsandties,andhisshirts,piledlikebricksinstacksadozenhigh. “I’vegotamaninEnglandwhobuysmeclothes.Hesendsoveraselectionofthingsatthebeginningofeachseason,springandfall.” Hetookoutapileofshirtsandbeganthrowingthem,onebyone,beforeus,shirtsofsheerlinenandthicksilkandfineflannel,whichlosttheirfoldsastheyfellandcoveredthetableinmany-coloureddisarray.Whileweadmiredhebroughtmoreandthesoftrichheapmountedhigher—shirtswithstripesandscrollsandplaidsincoralandapple-greenandlavenderandfaintorange,withmonogramsofindianblue.Suddenly,withastrainedsound,Daisybentherheadintotheshirtsandbegantocrystormily. “They’resuchbeautifulshirts,”shesobbed,hervoicemuffledinthethickfolds.“ItmakesmesadbecauseI’veneverseensuch—suchbeautifulshirtsbefore.” Afterthehouse,weweretoseethegroundsandtheswimmingpool,andthehydroplane,andthemidsummerflowers—butoutsideGatsby’swindowitbegantorainagain,sowestoodinarowlookingatthecorrugatedsurfaceoftheSound. “Ifitwasn’tforthemistwecouldseeyourhomeacrossthebay,”saidGatsby.“Youalwayshaveagreenlightthatburnsallnightattheendofyourdock.” Daisyputherarmthroughhisabruptly,butheseemedabsorbedinwhathehadjustsaid.Possiblyithadoccurredtohimthatthecolossalsignificanceofthatlighthadnowvanishedforever.ComparedtothegreatdistancethathadseparatedhimfromDaisyithadseemedveryneartoher,almosttouchingher.Ithadseemedascloseasastartothemo