After half an hour the sun shone again and the grocer's automobile rounded Gatsby's drive with the raw material for his servants' dinner — I felt sure he wouldn't eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from a large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little, now and the, with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within the house too.

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