She held my hand impersonally， as a promise thatshe’d take care of me in a minute， and gave ear totwo girls in twin yellow dresses who stopped at thefoot of the steps.
“Hello！” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’twin.”
That was for the golf tournament. She had lost inthe finals the week before.
“You don’t know who we are，” said one of the girlsin yellow， “but we met you here about a month ago.”
“You’ve dyed your hair since then，” remarkedJordan， and I started but the girls had movedcasually on and her remark was addressed to thepremature moon， produced like the supper， no doubt， out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’sslender golden arm resting in mine we descendedthe steps and sauntered about the garden. A trayof cocktails floated at us through the twilight andwe sat down at a table with the two girls in yellowand three men， each one introduced to us as Mr.
Mumble.
“Do you come to these parties often？” inquiredJordan ofthe girl beside her.
“The last one was the one I met you at，” answeredthe girl， in an alert， confident voice. She turned toher companion： “Wasn’t it for you， Lucille？”
It was for Lucille， too.
“I like to come，” Lucille said. “I never care what Ido， so I always have a good time. When I was herelast I tore my gown on a chair， and he asked me myname and address—inside of a week I got a packagefrom Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”
“Did you keep it？” asked Jordan.
“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight， butit was too big in the bust and had to be altered. Itwas gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred andsixty-five dollars.”
“There’s something funny about a fellow that’lldo a thing like that，” said the other girl eagerly. “Hedoesn’t want any trouble with anybody.”
“Who doesn’t？” I inquired.
“Gatsby. Somebody told me—”
The two girls and Jordan leaned together
confidentially.
“Somebody told me they thought he killed a manonce.”
A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr.
Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly.
“I don’t think it’s so much THAT，” argued Lucilleskeptically； “it’s more that he was a German spyduring the war.”
One of the men nodded in confirmation.
“I heard that from a man who knew all about
him， grew up with him in Germany，” he assured uspositively.
“Oh， no，” said the first girl， “it couldn’t be that，because he was in the American army during thewar.” As our credulity switched back to her sheleaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at himsometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him.
I’ll bet he killed a man.”
She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around forGatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculationhe inspired that there were whispers about himfrom those who found little that it was necessary towhisper about in this world.
The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served， and Jordaninvited me to join her own party who were spreadaround a table on the other side of the garden.
There were three married couples and Jordan’sescort， a persistent undergraduate given to violentinnuendo and obviously under the impression thatsooner or later Jordan was going to yield him upher person to a greater or lesser degree. Insteadof rambling this party had preserved a dignifiedhomogeneity， and assumed to itself the function ofrepresenting the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg， and carefullyon guard against its spectroscopic gayety.
“Let’s get out，” whispered Jordan， after a somehowwasteful and inappropriate half hour. “This is muchtoo polite for me.”
We got up， and she explained that we were goingto find the host—I had never met him， she said，and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduatenodded in a cynical， melancholy way.
The bar， where we glanced first， was crowded butGatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him fromthe top of the steps， and he wasn’t on the veranda.
On a chance we tried an important-looking door，and walked into a high Gothic library， panelledwith carved English oak， and probably transportedcomplete from some ruin overseas.
A stout， middle-aged man with enormous owleyedspectacles was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table， staring with unsteadyconcentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examinedJordan from head to foot.
“What do you think？” he demanded impetuously.
“About what？”
He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t botherto ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.”
“The books？”
He nodded.
“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. Ithought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matterof fact， they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here！
Lemme show you.”
Taking our skepticism for granted， he rushed tothe bookcases and returned with Volume One ofthe “Stoddard Lectures.”
“See！” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona fide pieceof printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regularBelasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness！ Whatrealism！ Knew when to stop too—didn’t cut thepages. But what do you want？ What do you expect？”
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf muttering that if one brick wasremoved the whole library was liable to collapse.
“Who brought you？” he demanded. “Or did you just come？ I was brought. Most people werebrought.”
Jordan looked at him alertly， cheerfully withoutanswering.
“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt，” hecontinued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you knowher？ I met her somewhere last night. I’ve beendrunk for about a week now， and I thought it mightsober me up to sit in a library.”
“Has it？”
“A little bit， I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only beenhere an hour. Did I tell you about the books？ They’rereal. They’re—”
“You told us.”
We shook hands with him gravely and went backoutdoors.