I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the onlycompliment I ever gave him， because I disapprovedof him from beginning to end. First he noddedpolitely， and then his face broke into that radiantand understanding smile， as if we’d been in ecstaticcahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pinkrag of a suit made a bright spot of color againstthe white steps and I thought of the night whenI first came to his ancestral home three monthsbefore. The lawn and drive had been crowded withthe faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps， concealing hisincorruptible dream， as he waved them goodbye.
I thanked him for his hospitality. We were alwaysthanking him for that—I and the others.
“Goodbye，” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast， Gatsby.”
Up in the city I tried for a while to list the quotationson an interminable amount of stock， then I fellasleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon thephone woke me and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker；she often called me up at this hour because theuncertainty of her own movements between hotelsand clubs and private houses made her hard to findin any other way. Usually her voice came over thewire as something fresh and cool as if a divot froma green golf links had come sailing in at the officewindow but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.
“I’ve left Daisy’s house，” she said. “I’m at Hempsteadand I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”
Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’shouse， but the act annoyed me and her next remarkmade me rigid.”
You weren’t so nice to me last night.”
“How could it have mattered then？”
Silence for a moment. Then—
“However—I want to see you.”
“I want to see you too.”
“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton， and comeinto town this afternoon？”
“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”
“Very well.”
“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”
We talked like that for a while and then abruptlywe weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know whichof us hung up with a sharp click but I know I didn’tcare. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-tablethat day if I never talked to her again in this world.
I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later， butthe line was busy. I tried four times； finally anexasperated central told me the wire was being keptopen for long distance from Detroit. Taking out mytime-table I drew a small circle around the threefiftytrain. Then I leaned back in my chair and triedto think. It was just noon.
When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the otherside of the car. I suppose there’d be a curious crowdaround there all day with little boys searching fordark spots in the dust and some garrulous mantelling over and over what had happened untilit became less and less real even to him and hecould tell it no longer and Myrtle Wilson’s tragicachievement was forgotten. Now I want to go backa little and tell what happened at the garage afterwe left there the night before.
They had difficulty in locating the sister， Catherine. She must have broken her rule againstdrinking that night for when she arrived she wasstupid with liquor and unable to understand thatthe ambulance had already gone to Flushing. Whenthey convinced her of this she immediately faintedas if that was the intolerable part of the affair.
Someone kind or curious took her in his car anddrove her in the wake of her sister’s body.
Until long after midnight a changing crowd lappedup against the front of the garage while GeorgeWilson rocked himself back and forth on the couchinside. For a while the door of the office was openand everyone who came into the garage glancedirresistibly through it. Finally someone said it wasa shame and closed the door. Michaelis and severalother men were with him—first four or five men，later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had toask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minuteslonger while he went back to his own place andmade a pot of coffee. After that he stayed therealone with Wilson until dawn.
About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherentmuttering changed—he grew quieter and began
to talk about the yellow car. He announced thathe had a way of finding out whom the yellow carbelonged to， and then he blurted out that a coupleof months ago his wife had come from the city withher face bruised and her nose swollen.
But when he heard himself say this， he flinchedand began to cry “Oh， my God！” again in hisgroaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt todistract him.
“How long have you been married， George？ Comeon there， try and sit still a minute and answer myquestion. How long have you been married？”
“Twelve years.”
“Ever had any children？ Come on， George， sitstill—I asked you a question. Did you ever have anychildren？”
The hard brown beetles kept thudding against thedull light and whenever Michaelis heard a car gotearing along the road outside it sounded to him likethe car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. Hedidn’t like to go into the garage because the workbench was stained where the body had been lyingso he moved uncomfortably around the office—heknew every object in it before morning—and fromtime to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keephim more quiet.
“Have you got a church you go to sometimes，
George？ Maybe even if you haven’t been there for along time？ Maybe I could call up the church and geta priest to come over and he could talk to you， see？”
“Don’t belong to any.”
“You ought to have a church， George， for timeslike this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’tyou get married in a church？ Listen， George， listento me. Didn’t you get married in a church？”
“That was a long time ago.”
The effort of answering broke the rhythm of hisrocking—for a moment he was silent. Then thesame half knowing， half bewildered look came backinto his faded eyes.
“Look in the drawer there，” he said， pointing atthe desk.
“Which drawer？”
“That drawer—that one.”
Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand.