those who accepted Gatsby's hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him.

"He's a bootlegger," said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. "One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass."

"What part of the Middle West?" I inquired casually. "San Francisco." "I see."

Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom.

Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.

An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-colored tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.

"This is a terrible mistake," he said, shaking his head from side to side, "a terrible, terrible mistake."

"I'd like to know who he is and what he does," insisted Tom. "And I think I'll make a point of finding out."

For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.

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