“They’re such beautiful shirts，” she sobbed， her voicemuffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad becauseI’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.”
After the house， we were to see the grounds andthe swimming pool， and the hydroplane and themidsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s windowit began to rain again so we stood in a row lookingat the corrugated surface of the Sound.
“If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your homeacross the bay，” said Gatsby. “You always have green light that burns all night at the end of yourdock.”
Daisy put her arm through his abruptly but heseemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possiblyit had occurred to him that the colossal significanceof that light had now vanished forever. Comparedto the great distance that had separated him fromDaisy it had seemed very near to her， almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to themoon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. Hiscount of enchanted objects had diminished by one.
I began to walk about the room， examining variousindefinite objects in the half darkness. A largephotograph of an elderly man in yachting costumeattracted me， hung on the wall over his desk.
“Who’s this？”
“That？ That’s Mr. Dan Cody， old sport.”
The name sounded faintly familiar.
“He’s dead now. He used to be my best friendyears ago.”
There was a small picture of Gatsby， also in yachting costume， on the bureau—Gatsby with
his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparentlywhen he was about eighteen.
“I adore it！” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour！
You never told me you had a pompadour—or yacht.”
“Look at this，” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lotof clippings—about you.”
They stood side by side examining it. I was goingto ask to see the rubies when the phone rang andGatsby took up the receiver.
“Yes…. Well， I can’t talk now…. I can’t talk now，old sport…. I said a SMALL town…. He must knowwhat a small town is…. Well， he’s no use to us ifDetroit is his idea of a small town….”
He rang off.
“Come here QUICK！” cried Daisy at the window.
The rain was still falling， but the darkness hadparted in the west， and there was a pink and goldenbillow of foamy clouds above the sea.
“Look at that，” she whispered， and then aftera moment： “I’d like to just get one of those pinkclouds and put you in it and push you around.”
I tried to go then， but they wouldn’t hear ofit； perhaps my presence made them feel more
satisfactorily alone.
“I know what we’ll do，” said Gatsby， “we’ll haveKlipspringer play the piano.”
He went out of the room calling “Ewing！” andreturned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed， slightly worn young man with shellrimmedglasses and scanty blonde hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt” open at the neck，sneakers and duck trousers of a nebuloushue.
“Did we interrupt your exercises？” inquired Daisypolitely.
“I was asleep，” cried Mr. Klipspringer， in a spasmof embarrassment. “That is， I’d BEEN asleep. ThenI got up….”
“Klipspringer plays the piano，” said Gatsby，cutting him off. “Don’t you， Ewing， old sport？”
“I don’t play well. I don’t—I hardly play at all. I’mall out of prac—”
“We’ll go downstairs，” interrupted Gatsby. Heflipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared asthe house glowed full of light.
In the music room Gatsby turned on a solitarylamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from trembling match， and sat down with her on a couchfar across the room where there was no light savewhat the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall.
When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest”
he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.
“I’m all out of practice， you see. I told you couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—”
“Don’t talk so much， old sport，” commandedGatsby. “Play！”
IN THE MORNING，
IN THE EVENING，
AIN’T WE GOT FUN—
Outside the wind was loud and there was a faintflow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights weregoing on in West Egg now； the electric trains， mencarrying，were plunging home through the rain from
New York. It was the hour of a profound humanchange， and excitement was generating on the air.
ONE THING’S SURE AND NOTHING’S SURER
THE RICH GET RICHER AND THE POOR GET—
CHILDREN.
IN THE MEANTIME，
IN BETWEEN TIME—
As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back intoGatsby’s face， as though a faint doubt had occurredto him as to the quality of his present happiness.
Almost five years！ There must have been momentseven that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short ofhis dreams—not through her own fault but becauseof the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gonebeyond her， beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion， adding to itall the time， decking it out with every bright featherthat drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshnesscan challenge what a man will store up in his ghostlyheart.
As I watched him he adjusted himself a little，visibly. His hand took hold of hers and as she saidsomething low in his ear he turned toward herwith a rush of emotion. I think that voice held himmost with its fluctuating， feverish warmth becauseit couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was adeathless song.
They had forgotten me， but Daisy glanced up andheld out her hand； Gatsby didn’t know me now atall. I looked once more at them and they lookedback at me， remotely， possessed by intense life.
Then I went out of the room and down the marblesteps into the rain， leaving them there together.
