“Yes， but listen，” said Myrtle Wilson， nodding herhead up and down， “at least you didn’t marry him.”
“I know I didn’t.”
“Well， I married him，” said Myrtle， ambiguously. “Andthat’s the difference between your case and mine.”
“Why did you， Myrtle？” demanded Catherine.
“Nobody forced you to.”
Myrtle considered.“I married him because I thought he was gentleman，” she said finally. “I thought he knewsomething about breeding， but he wasn’t fit to lickmy shoe.”
“You were crazy about him for a while，” saidCatherine.
“Crazy about him！” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Whosaid I was crazy about him？ I never was any morecrazy about him than I was about that man there.”
She pointed suddenly at me， and every one lookedat me accusingly. I tried to show by my expressionthat I had played no part in her past.
“The only CRAZY I was was when I married him.
I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowedsomebody’s best suit to get married in and nevereven told me about it， and the man came after one day when he was out. She looked around to seewho was listening： ‘Oh， is that your suit？’ I said. ‘Thisis the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it tohim and then I lay down and cried to beat the bandall afternoon.”
“She really ought to get away from him，” resumedCatherine to me. “They’ve been living over thatgarage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetieshe ever had.”
The bottle of whiskey—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present， exceptingCatherine who “felt just as good on nothing at all.”
Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for somecelebrated sandwiches， which were a complete
supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walkeastward toward the park through the soft twilightbut each time I tried to go I became entangledin some wild stri-dent argument which pulled meback， as if with ropes， into my chair. Yet high overthe city our line of yellow windows must havecontributed their share of human secrecy to thecasual watcher in the darkening streets， and I washim too， looking up and wondering. I was withinand without， simultaneously enchanted and repelledby the inexhaustible variety of life.
Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine， and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the storyof her first meeting with Tom.
“It was on the two little seats facing each otherthat are always the last ones left on the train. I wasgoing up to New York to see my sister and spendthe night. He had on a dress suit and patent leathershoes and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him butevery time he looked at me I had to pretend to belooking at the advertisement over his head. Whenwe came into the station he was next to me andhis white shirt-front pressed against my arm—andso I told him I’d have to call a policeman， but heknew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into ataxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t gettinginto a subway train. All I kept thinking about， overand over， was “You can’t live forever， you can’t liveforever.”
She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang fullof her artificial laughter.
“My dear，” she cried， “I’m going to give you thisdress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to getanother one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list ofall the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a waveand a collar for the dog and one of those cute littleash-trays where you touch a spring， and a wreathwith a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll lastall summer. I got to write down a list so I won’tforget all the things I got to do.”
It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it wasten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fistsclenched in his lap， like a photograph of a man ofaction. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped fromhis cheek the remains of the spot of dried latherthat had worried me all the afternoon.
The little dog was sitting on the table lookingwith blind eyes through the smoke and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared，reappeared， made plans to go somewhere， and thenlost each other， searched for each other， found eachother a few feet away. Some time toward midnightTom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to facediscussing in impassioned voices whether Mrs.
Wilson had any right to mention Daisy’s name.
“Daisy！ Daisy！ Daisy！” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’llsay it whenever I want to！ Daisy！ Dai—”
Making a short deft movement Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.
Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor， and women’s voices scolding， andhigh over the confusion a long broken wail of pain.
Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the scene—hiswife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowdedfurniture with articles of aid， and the despairingfigure on the couch bleeding fluently and trying tospread a copy of “Town Tattle” over the tapestryscenes of Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned andcontinued on out the door. Taking my hat from thechandelier I followed.
“Come to lunch some day，” he suggested， as wegroaned down in the elevator.
“Where？”
“Anywhere.”
“Keep your hands off the lever，” snapped theelevator boy.
“I beg your pardon，” said Mr. McKee with dignity，“I didn’t know I was touching it.”
“All right，” I agreed， “I’ll be glad to”
… I was standing beside his bed and he was sittingup between the sheets， clad in his underwear， with agreat portfolio in his hands.
“Beauty and the Beast … Loneliness … Old
Grocery Horse … Brook’n Bridge …”
Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower levelof the Pennsylvania Station， staring at the morning“Tribune” and waiting for the four o’clock train.
