I wondered if the fact that he was not drinkinghelped to set him off from his guests， for it seemedto me that he grew more correct as the fraternalhilarity increased. When the “Jazz History of theWorld” was over girls were putting their heads onmen’s shoulders in a puppyish， convivial way， girlswere swooning backward playfully into men’s arms，even into groups knowing that some one would arrest their falls—but no one swooned backwardon Gatsby and no French bob touched Gatsby’sshoulder and no singing quartets were formed withGatsby’s head for one link.
“I beg your pardon.”
Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us.
“Miss Baker？” he inquired. “I beg your pardon butMr.Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”
“With me？” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes， madame.”
She got up slowly， raising her eyebrows at me inastonishment， and followed the butler toward thehouse. I noticed that she wore her evening dress，all her dresses， like sports clothes—there was ajauntiness about her movements as if she had firstlearned to walk upon golf courses on clean，crispmornings.
I was alone and it was almost two. For some timeconfused and intriguing sounds had issued from along many—windowed room which over hung the terrace. Eluding Jordan’s undergraduate who wasnow engaged in an obstetrical conversation withtwo chorus girls， and who implored me to join him，I went inside.
The large room was full of people. One of thegirls in yellow was playing the piano and beside herstood a tall， red haired young lady from a famouschorus， engaged in song. She had drunk a quantityof champagne and during the course of her song shehad decided ineptly that everything was very verysad—she was not only singing， she was weepingtoo. Whenever there was a pause in the song shefilled it with gasping broken sobs and then took upthe lyric again in a quavering soprano. The tearscoursed down her cheeks—not freely， however，for when they came into contact with her heavilybeaded eyelashes they assumed an inky color， andpursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets.
A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes on her face whereupon she threw up herhands， sank into a chair and went off into a deepvinous sleep.
“She had a fight with a man who says he’s herhusband，” explained a girl at my elbow.
I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights with men said to be theirhusbands. Even Jordan’s party， the quartet from EastEgg， were rent asunder by dissension. One of themen was talking with curious intensity to a youngactress， and his wife after attempting to laugh at thesituation in a dignified and indifferent way brokedown entirely and resorted to flank attacks—atintervals she appeared suddenly at his side like anangry diamond， and hissed “You promised！” into hisear.The reluctance to go home was not confined towayward men. The hall was at present occupiedby two deplorably sober men and their highly indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing witheach other in slightly raised voices.
“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time hewants to go home.”
“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.”
“We’re always the first ones to leave.”
“So are we.”
“Well， we’re almost the last tonight，” said one ofthe men sheepishly. “The orchestra left half an hourago.”
In spite of the wives’ agreement that such malevolencewas beyond credibility， the dispute ended in
a short struggle， and both wives were lifted kickinginto the night.
As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of thelibrary opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby cameout together. He was saying some last word to herbut the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptlyinto formality as several people approached him tosay goodbye.
Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her fromthe porch but she lingered for a moment to shakehands.
“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing，” shewhispered. “How long were we in there？”
“Why，—about an hour.”
“It was—simpl y amazing，” she repeated
abstractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it and hereI am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully in myface. “Please come and see me….Phone book….
Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard…. Myaunt….” She was hurrying off as she talked—herbrown hand waved a jaunty salute as she meltedinto her party at the door.
Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I hadstayed so late， I joined the last of Gatsby’s guestswho were clustered around him. I wanted to explainthat I’d hunted for him early in the evening and toapologize for not having known him in the garden.
“Don’t mention it，” he enjoined me eagerly. “Don’tgive it another thought， old sport.” The familiarexpression held no more familiarity than the handwhich reassuringly brushed my shoulder. “And don’tforget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrowmorning at nine o’clock.”
Then the butler， behind his shoulder：
“Philadelphia wants you on the phone， sir.”
“All right， in a minute. Tell them I’ll be rightthere….good night.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.” He smiled—and suddenly thereseemed to be a pleasant significance in having beenamong the last to go， as if he had desired it all thetime. “Good night， old sport…. Good night.”
But as I walked down the steps I saw that theevening was not quite over. Fifty feet from thedoor a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre andtumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road，right side up but violently shorn of one wheel，rested a new coupé which had left Gatsby’s drivenot two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wallaccounted for the detachment of the wheel whichwas now getting considerable attention from half dozen curious chauffeurs. However， as they had lefttheir cars blocking the road a harsh discordant dinfrom those in the rear had been audible for sometime and added to the already violent confusion ofthe scene.