The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the
dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second
floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced
at me and frowned slightly.
“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s
nothing we can do to-night.”
A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with
decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of
the situation in a few brisk phrases.
“I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while
you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you
some supper — if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.”
“No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi.
I’ll wait outside.”
Jordan put her hand on my arm.
“Won’t you come in, Nick?”
“No, thanks.”
I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But
Jordan lingered for a moment more.
“It’s only half-past nine,” she said.
I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them
for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen
something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the
porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my
hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a
taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait
by the gate.
