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A new point of view occurred to me。 Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving。 He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything。 I looked at the house； there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the second floor。
“You wait here；” I said。 “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a motion。”
I walked back along the border of the lawn； traversed the gravel softly； and tiptoed up the veranda steps。 The drawingroom curtains were open； and I saw that the room was empty。 Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before； I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window。 The blind was drawn； but I found a rift at the sill。
Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table； with a plate of cold fried chicken between them； and two bottles of ale。 He was talking intently across the table at her； and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own。 Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement。
They weren’t happy； and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either。 There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture； and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together。
As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house。 Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive。
“Is it all quiet up there？” he asked anxiously。
“Yes； it’s all quiet。” I hesitated。 “You’d better e home and get some sleep。”
He shook his head。
“I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed。 Good night； old sport。”
He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house； as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil。 So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing。
Chapter 8
I couldn’t sleep all night； a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound； and I tossed halfsick between grotesque reality and savage； frightening dreams。 Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive； and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him； something to warn him about； and morning would be too late。
Crossing his lawn； I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall； heavy with dejection or sleep。
“Nothing happened；” he said wanly。 “I waited； and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light。”
His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes。 We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions； and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano。 There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere； and the rooms were musty； as though they hadn’t been aired for many days。 I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table； with two stale； dry cigarettes inside。 Throwing open the French windows of the drawingroom； we sat smoking out into the darkness。
“You ought to go away；” I said。 “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car。”
“Go away NOW； old sport？”
“Go to Atlantic City for a week； or up to Montreal。”
He wouldn’t consider it。 He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do。 He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free。
It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby。” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice； and the long secret extravaganza was played out。 I think that he would have acknowledged anything now； without reserve； but he wanted to talk about Daisy。
She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known。
In various unrevealed capacities he had e in contact with such people； but always with indiscernible barbed wire between。
He found her excitingly desirable。
He went to her house； at first with other officers from Camp Taylor； then alone。
It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before。
but what gave it an air of breathless intensity； was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him。 There was a ripe mystery about it； a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms； of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors； and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered。
It excited him； too； that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes。
He felt their presence all about the house； pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions。
But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident。 However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby； he was at present a penniless young man without a past； and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders。 So he made the most of his time。 He took what he could get； ravenously and unscrupulously— eventually he took Daisy one still October night； took her because he had no real right to touch her hand。
He might have despised himself； for he had certainly taken her under false pretenses。 I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions； but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security； he let her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her。 As a matter of fact； he had no such facilities—he had no fortable family standing behind him； and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world。
But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined。 He had intended； probably； to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had mitted himself to the following of a grail。 He knew that Daisy was extraordinary； but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be。 She vanished into her rich house； into her rich； full life； leaving Gatsby—nothing。 He felt married to her； that was all。
When they met again； two days later； it was Gatsby who was breathless； who was； somehow； betrayed。 Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of starshine； the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth。 She had caught a cold； and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever； and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves； of the freshness of many clothes； and of Daisy； gleaming like silver； safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor。
“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her； old sport。
I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over； but she didn’t； because she was in love with me too。
She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her。 。 。 。 Well； there I was； ‘way off my ambitions； getting deeper in love every minute； and all of a sudden I didn’t care。
What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do？
On the last afternoon before he went abroad； he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long； silent time。 It was a cold fall day； with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed。
Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little； and once he kissed her dark shining hair。
The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while； as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised。
They had never been closer in their month of love； nor municated more profoundly one with another； than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers； gently； as though she were asleep。
He did extraordinarily well in the war。 He was a captain b