He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was captain before he went to the front and followingthe Argonne battles he got his majority and thecommand of the divisional machine guns. Afterthe Armistice he tried frantically to get home butsome complication or misunderstanding sent himto Oxford instead. He was worried now—there wasa quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. Shedidn’t see why he couldn’t come. She was feeling thepressure of the world outside and she wanted to seehim and feel his presence beside her and be reassuredthat she was doing the right thing after all.
For Daisy was young and her artificial world wasredolent of orchids and pleasant， cheerful snobberyand orchestr as which set the rhythm of the year，summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of lifein new tunes. All night the sax-ophones wailedthe hopeless comment of the “Beale Street Blues” while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippersshuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour therewere always rooms that throbbed incessantly withthis low sweet fever， while fresh faces drifted hereand there like rose petals blown by the sad hornsaround the floor.
Through this twilight universe Daisy began tomove again with the season； suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with halfa dozen men and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangledamong dying orchids on the floor beside her bed.
And all the time something within her was cryingfor a decision. She wanted her life shaped now，immediately—and the decision must be made bysome force—of love， of money， of unquestionablepracticality—that was close at hand.
That force took shape in the middle of springwith the arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was awholesome bulkiness about his person and his position and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless therewas a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letterreached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.
It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs，filling the house with grey turning， gold turninglight. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across thedew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blueleaves. There was a slow pleasant movement in theair， scarcely a wind， promising a cool lovely day.
“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsbyturned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember， old sport， shewas very excited this afternoon. He told her thosethings in a way that frightened her—that made itlook as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And theresult was she hardly knew what she was saying.”
He sat down gloomily.
“Of course she might have loved him， just for aminute， when they were first married—and lovedme more even then， do you see？”
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark：
“In any case，” he said， “it was just personal.”
What could you make of that， except to suspectsome intensity in his conception of the affair thatcouldn’t be measured？
He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip， and made miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville onthe last of his army pay. He stayed there a week，walking the streets where their footsteps hadclicked together through the November night andrevisiting the out-of-the-way places to which theyhad driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s househad always seemed to him more mysterious and gaythan other houses so his idea of the city itself， eventhough she was gone from it， was pervaded with melancholy beauty.
He left feeling that if he had searched harderhe might have found her—that he was leaving herbehind. The day-coach—he was penniless now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule andsat down on a folding-chair， and the station slidaway and the backs of unfamiliar buildings movedby. Then out into the spring fields， where a yellowtrolley raced them for a minute with people in who might once have seen the pale magic of herface along the casual street.
The track curved and now it was going away fromthe sun which， as it sank lower， seemed to spreaditself in benediction over the vanishing city whereshe had drawn her breath. He stretched out hishand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air，to save a fragment of the spot that she had madelovely for him. But it was all going by too fast nowfor his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lostthat part of it， the freshest and the best， forever.
It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast andwent out on the porch. The night had made a sharpdifference in the weather and there was an autumnflavor in the air. The gardener， the last one of Gatsby’sformer servants， came to the foot of the steps.
“I’m going to drain the pool today， Mr. Gatsby.
Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon and then there’salways trouble with the pipes.”
“Don’t do it today，” Gatsby answered. He turnedto me apologetically. “You know， old sport， I’venever used that pool all summer？”
I looked at my watch and stood up.
“Twelve minutes to my train.”
I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth adecent stroke of work but it was more than that—Ididn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train， andthen another， before I could get myself away.
“I’ll call you up，” I said finally.
“Do， old sport.”
“I’ll call you about noon.”
We walked slowly down the steps.
“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at meanxiously as if he hoped I’d corroborate this.
“I suppose so.”
“Well—goodbye.”
We shook hands and I started away. Just beforeI reached the hedge I remembered something andturned around.
“They’re a rotten crowd，” I shouted across the lawn.
“You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
