It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at itshighest that the lights in his house failed to go onone Saturday night—and， as obscurely as it hadbegun， his career as Trimalchio was over.
Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drivestayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away.
Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squintedat me suspiciously from the door.
“Is Mr. Gatsby sick？”
“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory，grudging way.
“I hadn’t seen him around， and I was ratherworried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.”
“Who？” he demanded rudely.
“Carraway.”
“Carraway. All right， I’ll tell him.” Abruptly heslammed the door.
My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissedevery servant in his house a week ago and replacedthem with half a dozen others， who never went intoWest Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen，but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone.
The grocery boy reported that the kitchen lookedlike a pigsty， and the general opinion in the villagewas that the new people weren’t servants at all.
Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.
“Going away？” I inquired.
“No， old sport.”
“I hear you fired all your servants.”
“I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisycomes over quite often—in the afternoons.”
So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a cardhouse at the disapproval in her eyes.
“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to dosomething for. They’re all brothers and sisters. Theyused to runa small hotel.”
“I see.”
He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would come to lunch at her house tomorrow？ Miss Bakerwould be there. Half an hour later Daisy herselftelephoned and seemed relieved to find that I wascoming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’tbelieve that they would choose this occasion for scene—especially for the rather harrowing scenethat Gatsby had outlined in the garden.
The next day was broiling， almost the last，
certainly the warmest， of the summer. As my trainemerged from the tunnel into sunlight， only the hotwhistles of the National Biscuit Company brokethe simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of thecar hovered on the edge of combustion； the womannext to me perspired delicately for a while intoher white shirtwaist， and then， as her newspaperdampened under her fingers， lapsed despairinglyinto deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-bookslapped to the floor.
“Oh， my！” she gasped.
I picked it up with a weary bend and handed itback to her， holding it at arm’s length and by theextreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had nodesigns upon it—but every one near by， includingthe woman， suspected me just the same.
“Hot！” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Someweather！ Hot！ Hot！ Hot！ Is it hot enough for you？ Isit hot？ Is it… ？”
My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That any one should carein this heat whose flushed lips he kissed， whosehead made damp the pajama pocket over his heart！
Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew afaint wind， carrying the sound of the telephone bellout to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.
“The master’s body！” roared the butler into themouth-piece. “I’m sorry， madame， but we can’tfurnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon！”
What he really said was： “Yes … yes … I’ll see.”
He set down the receiver and came toward us， glistening slightly， to take our stiff straw hats.
“Madame expects you in the salon！” he cried，needlessly indicating the direction. In this heatevery extra gesture was an affront to the commonstore of life.
The room， shadowed well with awnings， was darkand cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormouscouch， like silver idols， weighing down their ownwhite dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.
“We can’t move，” they said together.
Jordan’s fingers， powdered white over their tan，rested for a moment in mine.
“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan， the athlete？” inquired.
Simultaneously I heard his voice， gruff， muffled，husky， at the hall telephone.
Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpetand gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy
watched him and laughed， her sweet， exciting laugh；a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into theair.
“The rumor is，” whispered Jordan， “that that’sTom’s girl on the telephone.”
We were silent. The voice in the hall rose highwith annoyance. “Very well， then， I won’t sell youthe car at all…. I’m under no obligations to you atall…. And as for your bothering me about it at lunchtime I won’t stand that at all！”
“Holding down the receiver，” said Daisy cynically.
“No， he’s not，” I assured her. “It’s a bona fide deal.
I happen to know about it.”
Tom flung open the door， blocked out its spacefor a moment with his thick body， and hurried intothe room.
“Mr. Gatsby！” He put out his broad， flat hand withwell-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you， sir….
Nick….”
“Make us a cold drink，” cried Daisy.
As he left the room again she got up and wentover to Gatsby and pulled his face down kissing himon the mouth.
“You know I love you，” she murmured.
“You forget there’s a lady present，” said Jordan.
Daisy looked around doubtfully.
“You kiss Nick too.”
“What a low， vulgar girl！”
“I don’t care！” cried Daisy and began to clog onthe brick fire place. Then she remembered the heatand sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshlylaundered nurse leading a little girl came into theroom.
“Blessed precious，” she crooned， holding out herarms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.”
The child， relinquished by the nurse， rushed
across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’sdress.
“The Blessed precious！ Did mother get powder onyour old yellowy hair？ Stand up now， and say Howde-do.”
Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took thesmall reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking atthe child with surprise. I don’t think he had everreally believed in its existence before.
“I got dressed before luncheon，” said the child，turning eagerly to Daisy.
