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yourself.”

      “Wait a minute,” said Tom, “I want to said Mr. Gatsby some words.”

      “Go on,” Gatsby said politely.

      “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere[57] make love to your wife!” “I know I'm not very popular. I don't give big parties.”

      Angry as I was[58], I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth.

      “I've got something to tell YOU, old sport, – ” began Gatsby. But Daisy interrupted helplessly.

      “Please don't! Please let's all go home. Why don't we all go home?”

      “That's a good idea.” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”

      “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.”

      “Your wife doesn't love you,” said Gatsby. “She's never loved you. She loves me.”

      “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.

      Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.

      “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!”

      At this point Jordan and I tried to go but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain – as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions.

      “Sit down, Daisy.” Tom's voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What's been going on? I want to hear all about it.”

      “I told you what's going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years – and you didn't know.”

      Tom turned to Daisy sharply.

      “You've been seeing this fellow[59] for five years?”

      “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn't meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn't know. I used to laugh sometimes – ” but there was no laughter in his eyes, “to think that you didn't know.”

      “Oh – that's all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair.

      “You're crazy!” he exploded. “I can't speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn't know Daisy then – and I'll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that's a God Damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.”

      “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head.

      “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn't know what she's doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what's more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.”

      “You're revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I'm surprised that they didn't treat you to the story of that little spree.”

      Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.

      “Daisy, that's all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn't matter any more. Just tell him the truth – that you never loved him – and it's all wiped out forever.”

      She looked at him blindly. “Why, – how could I love him – possibly?”

      “You never loved him.”

      She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing – and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.

      “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.

      “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone. “…Daisy?”

      “Please don't.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said – but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.

      “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now – isn't that enough? I can't help what's past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once – but I loved you too.”

      Gatsby's eyes opened and closed.

      “You loved me TOO?” he repeated.

      “Even that's a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn't know you were alive. Why, – there're things between Daisy and me that you'll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.”

      The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.

      “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She's all excited now – ”

      “Even alone I can't say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn't be true.”

      “Of course it wouldn't,” agreed Tom.

      She turned to her husband.

      “As if it mattered to you,” she said.

      “Of course it matters. I'm going to take better care of you from now on.”

      “You don't understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You're not going to take care of her any more.”

      “I'm not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why's that?”

      “Daisy's leaving you.”

      “Nonsense.”

      “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.

      “She's not leaving me!” Tom's words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby.

      “Certainly not for a common swindler who'd have to steal the ring he put on her finger.”

      “I won't stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let's get out.”

      “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “I've made a little investigation into your affairs. I found out what your 'drug stores' were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He sold alcohol over the counter.”

      “What about it[60], old sport?” said Gatsby politely.

      “Don't you call me 'old sport'!” cried Tom.

      I glanced at Daisy who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband and at Jordan who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby – and was startled at his expression. He looked – and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden – as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.

      It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

      The voice begged again to go.

      “PLEASE, Tom! I can't stand this any more.”

      Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.

      “You two start on home, Daisy,”

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