The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wildtonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it fora moment， up and down， with my ear alone beforeany words came through. A damp streak of hair laylike a dash of blue paint across her cheek and herhand was wet with glistening drops as I took it tohelp her from the car.
“Are you in love with me，” she said low in my ear.
“Or why did I have to come alone？”
“That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell yourchauffeurn to go far away and spend an hour.”
“Come back in an hour， Ferdie.” Then in a gravemurmur， “His name is Ferdie.”
“Does the gasoline affect his nose？”
“I don’t think so，” she said innocently. “Why？”
We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the
living room was deserted.
“Well， that’s funny！” I exclaimed.
“What’s funny？”
She turned her head as there was a light， dignifiedknocking at the front door. I went out and openedit. Gatsby， pale as death， with his hands plungedlike weights in his coat pockets， was standing in puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalkedby me into the hall， turned sharply as if he were on wire and disappeared into the living room. It wasn’t bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heartI pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then fromthe living room I heard a sort of choking murmurand part of a laugh followed by Daisy’s voice on clear artificial note.
“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”
A pause； it endured horribly. I had nothing to doin the hall so I went into the room.
Gatsby， his hands still in his pockets， was recliningagainst the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeitof perfect ease， even of boredom. His head leanedback so far that it rested against the face of defunct mantelpiece clock and from this position hisdistraught eyes stared down at Daisy who was sittingfrightened but graceful on the edge of a stiff chair.
“We’ve met before，” muttered Gatsby. His eyesglanced momentarily at me and his lips partedwith an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily theclock took this moment to tilt dangerously at thepressure of his head， whereupon he turned andcaught it with trembling fingers and set it back inplace. Then he sat down， rigidly， his elbow on thearm of the sofa and his chin in his hand.
“I’m sorry about the clock，” he said.
My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up a single common placeout of the thousand in my head.
“It’s an old clock，” I told them idiotically.
I think we all believed for a moment that it hadsmashed in pieces on the floor.
“We haven’t met for many years，” said Daisy， hervoice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be.
“Five years next November.”
The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set usall back at least another minute. I had them bothon their feet with the desperate suggestion thatthey help me make tea in the kitchen when thedemoniac Finn brought it in on a tray.
Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes acertain physical decency established itself. Gatsbygot himself into a shadow and while Daisy andI talked looked conscientiously from one to theother of us with tense unhappy eyes. However， ascalmness wasn’t an end in itself I made an excuse atthe first possible moment and got to my feet.
“Where are you going？” demanded Gatsby in
immediate alarm.
“I’ll be back.”
“I’ve got to speak to you about something beforeyou go.”
He followed me wildly into the kitchen， closedthe door and whispered： “Oh， God！” in a miserableway.
‘What’s the matter？”
“This is a terrible mistake，” he said， shaking hishead from side to side， “a terrible， terrible mistake.”
“You’re just embarrassed， that’s all，” and luckily added， “Daisy’s embarrassed too.”
“She’s embarrassed？” he repeated incredulously.
“Just as much as you are.”
“Don’t talk so loud.”
“You’re acting like a little boy，” I broke outimpatiently. “Not only that but you’re rude. Daisy’ssitting in there all alone.”
He raised his hand to stop my words， looked atme with unforgettable reproach and opening thedoor cautiously went back into the other room.
I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby hadwhen he had made his nervous circuit of the househalf an hour before—and ran for a huge blackknotted tree whose massed leaves made a fabricagainst the rain. Once more it was pouring and myirregular lawn， well-shaved by Gatsby’s gardener，abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoricmarshes. There was nothing to look at from underthe tree except Gatsby’s enormous house， so stared at it， like Kant at his church steeple， forhalf an hour. A brewer had built it early in the“period” craze， a decade before， and there wasstory that he’d agreed to pay five years’ taxes onall the neighboring cottages if the owners wouldhave their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps theirrefusal took the heart out of his plan to Found aFamily—he went into an immediate decline. Hischildren sold his house with the black wreath stillon the door. Americans， while occasionally willingto be serfs， have always been obstinate about beingpeasantry.
After half an hour the sun shone again and thegrocer’s automobile rounded Gatsby’s drive with theraw material for his servants’ dinner—I felt sure hewouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening theupper windows of his house， appeared momentarilyin each， and， leaning from a large central bay， spatmeditatively into the garden. It was time I wentback. While the rain continued it had seemed likethe murmur of their voices， rising and swelling alittle， now and then， with gusts of emotion. But inthe new silence I felt that silence had fallen withinthe house too.
I went in—after making every possible noise inthe kitchen short of pushing over the stove—but Idon’t believe they heard a sound. They were sittingat either end of the couch looking at each otheras if some question had been asked or was in theair， and every vestige of embarrassment was gone.