There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden，old men pushing young girls backward ineternal graceless circles， superior couples holdingeach other tortuously， fashionably and keeping inthe corners—and a great number of single girlsdancing individualistically or relieving the orchestrafor a moment of the burden of the banjo or thetraps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. celebrated tenor had sung in Italian and a notoriouscontralto had sung in jazz and between the numberspeople were doing “stunts” all over the garden，while happy vacuous bursts of laughter rose towardthe summer sky. A pair of stage “twins”—whoturned out to be the girls in yellow—did a baby actin costume and champagne was served in glassesbigger than finger bowls. The moon had risen higher， and floating in the Sound was a triangle ofsilver scales， trembling a little to the stiff， tinny dripof the banjoes on the lawn.
I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at atable with a man of about my age and a rowdy littlegirl who gave way upon the slightest provocation touncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now.
I had taken two finger bowls of champagne and thescene had changed before my eyes into somethingsignificant， elemental and profound.
At a lull in the entertainment the man looked atme and smiled.
“Your face is familiar，” he said， politely. “Weren’tyou in the Third Division during the war？”
“Why， yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun
Battalion.”
“I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteeneighteen.
I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”
We talked for a moment about some wet， grey littlevillages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinityfor he told me that he had just bought a hydroplaneand was going to try it out in the morning.
“Want to go with me， old sport？ Just near theshore along the Sound.”
“What time？”
“Any time that suits you best.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his namewhen Jordan looked around and smiled.
“Having a gay time now？” she inquired.
“Much better.” I turned again to my new
acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. Ihaven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance，“and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with aninvitation.”
For a moment he looked at me as if he failed tounder-stand.
“I’m Gatsby，” he said suddenly.
“What！” I exclaimed. “Oh， I beg your pardon.”
“I thought you knew， old sport. I’m afraid I’m nota very good host.”
He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smileswith a quality of eternal reassurance in it， that youmay come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world foran instant， and then concentrated on YOU with anirresistible prejudice in your favor. It understoodyou just so far as you wanted to be understood，believed in you as you would like to believe inyourself and assured you that it had precisely theimpression of you that， at your best， you hoped toconvey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and was looking at an elegant young rough-neck， a yearor two over thirty， whose elaborate formality ofspeech just missed being absurd. Some time beforehe introduced himself I’d got a strong impressionthat he was picking his words with care.
Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him withthe information that Chicago was calling him onthe wire. He excused himself with a small bow thatincluded each of us in turn.
“If you want anything just ask for it， old sport，” heurged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”
When he was gone I turned immediately to
Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. Ihad expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid andcorpulent person in his middle years.
“Who is he？” I demanded. “Do you know？”
“He’s just a man named Gatsby.”
“Where is he from， I mean？ And what does he
do？”
“Now YOU’re started on the subject，” she answeredwith a wan smile. “Well， —he told me once he wasan Oxford man.”
A dim background started to take shape behindhim but at her next remark it faded away.
“However， I don’t believe it.”
“Why not？”
“I don’t know，” she insisted， “I just don’t think hewent there.”
Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man，” and had theeffect of stimulating my curiosity. I would haveaccepted without question the information thatGatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana orfrom the lower East Side of New York. That wascomprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least inmy provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace onLong Island Sound.
“Anyhow he gives large parties，” said Jordan，changing the subject with an urbane distaste forthe concrete. “And I like large parties. They’re sointimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”
There was the boom of a bass drum， and the voiceof the orchestra leader rang out suddenly above theecholalia of the garden.
“Ladies and gentlemen，” he cried. “At the requestof Mr.Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr.
Vladimir Tostoff ’s latest work which attracted somuch attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you readthe papers you know there was a big sensation.” Hesmiled with jovial condescension and added “Somesensation！” whereupon everybody laughed.
“The piece is known，” he concluded lustily， “as‘VladimirTostoff’s Jazz History of the World.’ ”
“The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eludedme， because just as it began my eyes fell on Gatsby，standing alone on the marble steps and lookingfrom one group to another with approving eyes. Histanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his faceand his short hair looked as though it were trimmedevery day. I could see nothing sinister about him.