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day would suit you?”

      “What day would suit YOU?” he corrected me quickly. “I don't want to put you to any trouble, you see.”

      “How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance:

      “I want to get the grass cut,” he said.

      We both looked at the grass – there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass.

      “There's another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated.

      “Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked.

      “Oh, it isn't about that. At least – ” He fumbled with a series of beginnings. “Why, I thought – why, look here, old sport, you don't make much money, do you?”

      “Not very much.”

      This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently.

      “I thought you didn't, if you'll pardon my – you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of sideline, you understand. And I thought that if you don't make very much – You're selling bonds, aren't you, old sport?”

      “Trying to.”

      “Well, this would interest you. It wouldn't take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing.”

      I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there.

      I called up Daisy from the office next morning and invited her to come to tea.

      “Don't bring Tom,” I warned her.

      “What?”

      “Don't bring Tom.”

      “Who is Tom?” she asked innocently.

      The day agreed upon was pouring rain.

      At eleven o'clock a man in a raincoat tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass.

      At two o'clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby's, with innumerable receptacles to contain it.

      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.

      “Is everything all right?” he asked immediately.

      “The grass looks fine, if that's what you mean.”

      “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He looked out the window at it, but judging from his expression I don't believe he saw a thing.

      “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely.

      I took him into the pantry where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop.

      “Will they do?” I asked.

      “Of course, of course! They're fine!” and he added hollowly, “…old sport.”

      “Nobody's coming to tea. It's too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can't wait all day.”

      “Don't be silly; it's just two minutes to four.”

      He sat down, miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard.

      Under the dripping bare lilac trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy's face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile.

      “Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?”

      The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.

      “Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear. “Or why did I have to come alone?”

      “That's the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.”

      We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living room was deserted.

      “Well, that's funny!” I exclaimed.

      “What's funny?”

      She turned her head as there was a light, dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. 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.

      With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire and disappeared into the living room. It wasn't a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.

      For half a minute there wasn't a sound. Then from the living room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh followed by Daisy's voice on a clear artificial note.

      “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”

      “We haven't met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be.

      “Five years next November.”

      The automatic quality of Gatsby's answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray.

      Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and while Daisy and I talked looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with tense unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn't an end in itself I made an excuse at the first possible moment and got to my feet.

      “Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm.

      “I'll be back.”

      “I've got to speak to you about something before you go.”

      He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door and whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way.

      “What's the matter?”

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

      “You're just embarrassed, that's all,” and luckily I added, “Daisy's embarrassed too.”

      “She's embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously.

      “Just as much as you are.”

      “Don't talk so loud.”

      “You're acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently. “Not only that but you're rude. Daisy's sitting in there all alone.”

      He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable reproach and opening the door cautiously went back into the other room.

      I went in – after making every possible noise in the kitchen short of pushing over the stove – but I don't believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch looking at each other as if some question had been asked or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy's face was smeared with tears and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.

      “Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn't seen me for

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