I couldn’t sleep all night； a fog-horn was groaningincessantly on the Sound， and I tossed half-sickbetween grotesque reality and savage frighteningdreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’sdrive and immediately I jumped out of bed andbegan to dress—I felt that I had something to tellhim， something to warn him about and morning would be too late.
Crossing his lawn I saw that his front door wasstill open and he was leaning against a table in thehall， heavy with dejection or sleep.
“Nothing happened，” he said wanly. “I waited， andabout four o’clock she came to the window and stoodthere for a minute and then turned out the light.”
His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through thegreat rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtainsthat were like pavilions and felt over innumerablefeet of dark wall for electric light switches—onceI tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amountof dust everywhere and the rooms were musty as though they hadn’t been aired for many days.
I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table withtwo stale dry cigarettes inside. Throwing openthe French windows of the drawing-room we satsmoking out into the darkness.
“You ought to go away，” I said. “It’s pretty certainthey’ll trace your car.”
“Go away NOW， old sport？”
“Go to Atlantic City for a week， or up to Montreal.”
He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possiblyleave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do.
He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’tbear to shake him free.
It was this night that he told me the strangestory of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to mebecause “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glassagainst Tom’s hard malice and the long secretextravaganza was played out. I think that he wouldhave acknowledged anything， now， without reserve，but he wanted to talk about Daisy.
She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known.
In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found herexcitingly desirable. He went to her house， at firstwith other officers from Camp Taylor， then alone. Itamazed him—he had never been in such a beautifulhouse before. But what gave it an air of breathlessintensity was that Daisy lived there—it was ascasual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was tohim. There was a ripe mystery about it， a hint ofbedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool thanother bedrooms， of gay and radiant activities takingplace through its corridors and of romances thatwere not musty and laid away already in lavenderbut fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’sshining motor cars and of dances whose flowerswere scarcely withered. It excited him too thatmany men had already loved Daisy—it increasedher value in his eyes. He felt their presence all aboutthe house， pervading the air with the shades andechoes of still vibrant emotions.
But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by colossal accident. However glorious might be hisfuture as Jay Gatsby， he was at present a pennilessyoung man without a past， and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slipfrom his shoulders. So he made the most of histime. He took what he could get， ravenously andunscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one stillOctober night， took her because he had no realright to touch her hand.
He might have despised himself， for he had certainly taken her under false pretenses. I don’tmean that he had traded on his phantom millions，but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense ofsecurity； he let her believe that he was a personfrom much the same stratum as herself—that hewas fully able to take care of her. As a matter of facthe had no such facilities—he had no comfortablefamily standing behind him and he was liable at thewhim of an impersonal government to be blown
anywhere about the world.
But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turnout as he had imagined. He had intended， probably，to take what he could and go—but now he foundthat he had committed himself to the following ofa grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary buthe didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girlcould be. She vanished into her rich house， intoher rich， full life， leaving Gatsby—nothing. He feltmarried to her， that was all.
When they met again two days later it was Gatsbywho was breathless， who was somehow betrayed.
Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine； the wicker of the settee squeakedfashionably as she turned toward him and he kissedher curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a coldand it made her voice huskier and more charmingthan ever and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware ofthe youth and mystery that wealth imprisons andpreserves， of the freshness of many clothes and ofDaisy， gleaming like silver， safe and proud above thehot struggles of the poor.
“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was tofind out I loved her， old sport. I even hoped fora while that she’d throw me over， but she didn’t，because she was in love with me too. She thoughtI knew a lot because I knew different things fromher…. Well， there I was， way off my ambitions，getting deeper in love every minute， and all of asudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doinggreat things if I could have a better time telling herwhat I was going to do？”
On the last afternoon before he went abroad hesat with Daisy in his arms for a long， silent time.
It was a cold fall day with fire in the room and hercheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and hechanged his arm a little and once he kissed her darkshining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquilfor a while as if to give them a deep memory forthe long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love norcommunicated more profoundly one with anotherthan when she brushed silent lips against his coat’sshoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers，gently， as though she were asleep.