When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way.