"Who is this Gatsby anyhow?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Some big bootlegger?"

"My God, I believe the man's coming," said Tom. "Doesn't he know she doesn't want him?"

She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago.

Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.

"Go on. He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over."

I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.

People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to mention Daisy's name.

"I told him the truth," he said. "He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren't in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn't told him who owned the car."