It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes… Well, I can’t talk now… I can’t talk now, old sport… I said a small town… He must know what a small town is… Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town…” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.