“At least they’re more interesting than the peoplewe know，” she said with an effort.
“You didn’t look so interested.”
“Well， I was.”
Tom laughed and turned to me.
“Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl askedher to put her under a cold shower？”
Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky，rhythmic whisper， bringing out a meaning in eachword that it had never had before and would neverhave again. When the melody rose， her voice brokeup sweetly， following it， in a way contral to voiceshave， and each change tipped out a little of herwarm human magic upon the air.
“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited，”
she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited.
They simply force their way in and he’s too politeto object.”
“I’d like to know who he is and what he does，” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point offinding out.”
“I can tell you right now，” she answered. “Heowned some drug stores， a lot of drug stores. Hebuilt them up himself.”
The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.
“Good night， Nick，” said Daisy.
Her glance left me and sought the lighted top ofthe steps where “Three o’Clock in the Morning，”
a neat， sad little waltz of that year， was drifting outthe open door. After all， in the very casualness ofGatsby’s party there were romantic possibilitiestotally absent from her world. What was it upthere in the song that seemed to be calling herback inside？ What would happen now in the dimincalculable hours？ Perhaps some unbelievableguest would arrive， a person infinitely rare and to bemarvelled at， some authentically radiant young girlwho with one fresh glance at Gatsby， one momentof magical encounter， would blot out those fiveyears of unwavering devotion.
I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to waituntil he was free and I lingered in the garden untilthe inevitable swimming party had run up， chilledand exalted， from the black beach， until the lightswere extinguished in the guestrooms overhead.
When he came down the steps at last the tannedskin was drawn unusually tight on his face， and hiseyes were bright and tired.
“She didn’t like it，” he said immediately.
“Of course she did.”
“She didn’t like it，” he insisted. “She didn’t have good time.”
He was silent and I guessed at his unutterabledepression.
“I feel far away from her，” he said. “It’s hard tomake her understand.”
“You mean about the dance？”
“The dance？” He dismissed all the dances he hadgiven with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport， thedance is unimportant.”
He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that sheshould go to Tom and say： “I never loved you.” Aftershe had obliterated three years with that sentencethey could decide upon the more practical measuresto be taken. One of them was that， after she wasfree， they were to go back to Louisville and bemarried from her house—just as if it were five yearsago.
“And she doesn’t understand，” he said. “She usedto be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—”
“He broke off and began to walk up and down desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favors andcrushed flowers.”
“I wouldn’t ask too much of her，” I ventured. “Youcan’t repeat the past.”
“Can’t repeat the past？” he cried incredulously.
“Why of course you can！”
He looked around him wildly， as if the past werelurking here in the shadow of his house， just out ofreach of his hand.
“I’m going to fix everything just the way it wasbefore，” he said， nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.”
He talked a lot about the past and I gatheredthat he wanted to recover something， some ideaof himself perhaps， that had gone into lovingDaisy. His life had been confused and disorderedsince then， but if he could once return to a certainstarting place and go over it all slowly， he could findout what that thing was….
One autumn night， five years before， they hadbeen walking down the street when the leaves were falling， and they came to a place where therewere no trees and the sidewalk was white withmoonlight. They stopped here and turned towardeach other. Now it was a cool night with thatmysterious excitement in it which comes at the twochanges of the year. The quiet lights in the houseswere humming out into the darkness and there
was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of thecorner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of thesidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to asecret place above the trees—he could climb to it， ifhe climbed alone， and once there he could suck onthe pap of life， gulp down the incomparable milk ofwonder.
His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s whiteface came up to his own. He knew that when hekissed this girl， and forever wed his unutterablevisions to her perishable breath， his mind wouldnever romp again like the mind of God. So he
waited， listening for a moment longer to the tuningfork that had been struck upon a star. Then hekissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for himlike a flower and the incarnation was complete.
Through all he said， even through his appallingsentimentality， I was reminded of something—anelusive rhythm， a fragment of lost words， that I hadheard somewhere a long time ago. For a momenta phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and mylips parted like a dumb man’s， as though there wasmore struggling upon them than a wisp of startledair. But they made no sound and what I had almostremembered was uncommunicable forever.
