Two o’clock and the whole corner of the peninsulawas blazing with light which fell unreal on theshrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon theroadside wires. Turning a corner I saw that it wasGatsby’s house， lit from tower to cellar.
At first I thought it was another party， a wild routthat had resolved itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or“sardines-in-the-box” with all the house thrownopen to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Onlywind in the trees which blew the wires and madethe lights go off and on again as if the house hadwinked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned awayI saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn.
“Your place looks like the world’s fair，” I said.
“Does it？” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “Ihave been glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s goto Coney Island， old sport. In my car.”
“It’s too late.”
“Well， suppose we take a plunge in the swimmingpool？ I haven’t made use of it all summer.”
“I’ve got to go to bed.”
“All right.”
He waited， looking at me with suppressed eagerness.
“I talked with Miss Baker，” I said after a moment.
“I’m going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite herover here to tea.”
“Oh， that’s all right，” he said carelessly. “I don’twant to put you to any trouble.”
“What day would suit you？”
“What day would suit YOU？” he corrected me
quickly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble， yousee.”
“How about the day after tomorrow？” He consideredfor a moment. Then， with reluctance：
“I want to get the grass cut，” he said.
We both looked at the grass—there was a sharpline where my ragged lawn ended and the darker，well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that hemeant my grass.
“There’s another little thing，” he said uncertainly，and hesitated.
“Would you rather put it off for a few days？” asked.
“Oh， it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbledwith a series of beginnings. “Why， I thought—why，look here， old sport， you don’t make much money，do you？”
“Not very much.”
This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently.
“I thought you didn’t， if you’ll pardon my—yousee， I carry on a little business on the side， a sort ofsideline， you understand. And I thought that if youdon’t make very much—You’re selling bonds， aren’tyou， old sport？”
“Trying to.”
“Well， this would interest you. It wouldn’t take upmuch of your time and you might pick up a nice bitof money. It happens to be a rather confidential sortof thing.”
I realize now that under different circumstancesthat conversation might have been one of the crisesof my life. But， because the offer was obviouslyand tactlessly for a service to be rendered， I had nochoice except to cut him off there.
“I’ve got my hands full，” I said. “I’m much obligedbut I couldn’t take on any more work.”
“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned atlunch， but I assured him he was wrong. He waiteda moment longer， hoping I’d begin a conversation，but I was too absorbed to be responsive， so he wentunwillingly home.
The evening had made me light-headed and happy； I think I walked into a deep sleep as Ientered my front door. So I didn’t know whetheror not Gatsby went to Coney Island or for howmany hours he “glanced into rooms” while his houseblazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the officenext morning and invited her to come to tea.
“Don’t bring Tom，” I warned her.
“What？”
“Don’t bring Tom.”
“Who is ‘Tom’？” she asked innocently.
The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleveno’clock a man in a raincoat dragging a lawn-mowertapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsbyhad sent him over to cut my grass. This remindedme that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to comeback so I drove into West Egg Village to search forher among soggy white-washed alleys and to buysome cups and lemons and flowers.
The flowers were unnecessary， for at two o’clock green-house arrived from Gatsby’s， with innumerablereceptacles to contain it. An hour later the frontdoor opened nervously， and Gatsby in a white flannelsuit， silver shirt and gold-colored tie hurried in. Hewas pale and there were dark signs of sleeplessnessbeneath his eyes.
“Is everything all right？” he asked immediately.
“The grass looks fine， if that’s what you mean.”
“What grass？” he inquired blankly. “Oh， the grassin the yard.” He looked out the window at it， butjudging from his expression I don’t believe he saw thing.
“Looks very good，” he remarked vaguely. “One ofthe papers said they thought the rain would stopabout four. I think it was ‘The Journal.’ Have yougot everything you need in the shape of—of tea？”
I took him into the pantry where he looked a littlereproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinizedthe twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop.
“Will they do？” I asked.
“Of course， of course！ They’re fine！” and he addedhollowly， “…old sport.”
The rain cooled about half-past three to a dampmist through which occasional thin drops swam likedew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copyof Clay’s “Economics，” starting at the Finnish treadthat shook the kitchen floor and peering toward thebleared windows from time to time as if a series ofinvisible but alarming happenings were taking placeoutside. Finally he got up and informed me in anuncertain voice that he was going home.
“Why’s that？”
“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late！” He lookedat his watch as if there was some pressing demandon his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”
“Don’t be silly； it’s just two minutes to four.”
He sat down， miserably， as if I had pushed him，and simultaneously there was the sound of a motorturning into my lane. We both jumped up and， alittle harrowed myself， I went out into the yard.
Under the dripping bare lilac trees a large opencar was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’sface， tipped sideways beneath a three-corneredlavender hat， looked out at me with a bright ecstaticsmile.
“Is this absolutely where you live， my dearestone？”
