The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald

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.

      “Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai—”

      Making a short deft movement Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.

      Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone half way he turned around and stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the despairing figure on the couch bleeding fluently and trying to spread a copy of “Town Tattle” over the tapestry scenes of Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier I followed.

      “Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator.

      “Where?”

      “Anywhere.”

      “Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy.

      “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was touching it.”

      “All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”

      …I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.

      “Beauty and the Beast … Loneliness … Old Grocery Horse … Brook’n Bridge.…”

      Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning “Tribune” and waiting for the four o’clock train.